"Thank you," the senior sergeant said briskly. "You are all under arrest. Please wait here." He marched toward the bar's main door. The spent web canister was dropped, clattering away on the stone-paved road. He pulled another one from his belt and stood in the doorway. "Pack it in!" he yelled. The new web canister was fired into the Junk Buoy.
Lawrence woke up knowing he must have only seconds to live. His head was obviously split open, allowing someone to pour boiling oil over his exposed brain. He groaned feebly, moving about. Which was a big mistake. He dry-retched. His hands waved about slowly, coming into contact with thin strings of vomit beading out of his mouth.
"Oh fucking hell."
The light was agonizingly bright and penetrating deep inside his broken head. He didn't so much blink as weep the world into focus. Not a very good focus, he had to admit.
Someone had dumped him in a very weird hell. He was lying on the thin gray carpet tiles of what looked like a brightly lit airport lounge. There were long rows of red plastic chairs screwed into the floor. People were slumped listlessly in them. Some of the men were injured, holding pressure dressings to cuts and bruised eyes, blood staining the white fabric. Girls in small tight dresses leaned against each other, either asleep or staring blankly. There were other people sleeping on the floor—at least he assumed they were sleeping; none of them showed any signs of movement. Several Skins stood guard around the perimeter of the room, imposingly silent and still.
Lawrence got it then, and memory oozed back. The fight. This was a hospital waiting room, then. Not hell after all.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned on his side, then levered himself up to a sitting position. Pain pounded away on the side of his head, making him nauseated again. He winced, dabbing at the spot with fingers. There was a huge tender lump just behind his left ear.
Amersy was sitting in one of the red chairs beside him. The corporal's white cheek had turned gray; both eyes were badly bloodshot. He was holding a chilpak across his forehead. His shoulders were trembling.
Lewis, Odel, Karl and Dennis were in the seats beside him; Odel with his right hand swallowed by a blue field-aid sheath, Karl with a busted nose and blood on his lips and chin. Edmond was lying on the floor, curled up at Karl's feet.
"Ho shit," Lawrence croaked. "What—"
"We got webbed," Lewis muttered. "The owner called the cops."
"Oh great." He paused, pulling down some more air. "Everyone okay?"
"Sure. We were kicking some serious butt in there till our own cavalry came over the hill and shot us. Fuck. I mean, whose side are they on?"
Lawrence wasn't going to give any sort of answer to that "What's our status?"
"The kid's in with the doc right now." Amersy jerked his thumb toward the curtained-off cubicles at the back of the room. "Nothing bad, at least not broken. And we're on notified restraint until the medics clear us."
"Great." He looked round to see if there was some sort of pillow he could rest his head on. "Where's Jones?"
"Christ knows."
"That's good. He'll make his own way back." The effort of talking and thinking was incredibly tiring. "Let me know when it's my turn." He lowered his head back onto the carpet tiles again.
The nurse was surprisingly sympathetic. Lawrence had no idea what time it was when he was finally called into a cubicle to be assessed and cleaned up. Very early morning, he guessed.
She scanned the side of his head where the bump was, and the medical AS decided he wasn't concussed. "But I'll get a human doctor to examine the image when we've one free," she told him. "Just to be on the safe side."
"Thanks."
"It'll be a while. They're a bit busy right now." She laid him on his side and pulled the grubby T-shirt over his head.
"Sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't start it. Did you?"
"No. But I should have realized it was inevitable."
She started squirting some kind of cool cleaning liquid on his lump. Lawrence grunted at the sharp sting.
"Any fool could have told you that."
"I'm not just any fool, I'm supposed to be in charge."
"In charge, huh?" A gauze napkin was dabbed on his skin, soaking up the excess liquid.
"Yeah, I know. Listen, I don't suppose you've got anything for my headache, have you?"
"Headache or hangover?"
"Both. And they really don't like sharing space."
"Not surprised. Hold that." She took his hand and pressed it against the napkin. He could just see her shoes as she walked over to a wall cabinet.
"Anyone badly hurt?" he asked.
"Us or you?"
"Just anyone."
"Three deep stab wounds. One emergency regenerative procedure, a girl's face was cut up—"
"Aw shit."
"—several broken bones. And that electrocution weapon of yours has left a lot of people very shaky. Nobody dead, though. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies." She handed him a couple of purple capsules and a glass of water. "Take these."
He swallowed them automatically. Only afterward did he realize how trusting he'd been. Strategic security policy was quite strict on receiving externalmedical assistance, especially in nonlethal situations.
The curtain was shoved back, and Captain Bryant stormed in. He was in full uniform, the light mauve fabric showing up his anger-heated skin. "There you are, Newton."
"Excuse me," the nurse said. "I'm treating this man."
"He's cured." Bryant held the curtain open for her. "That will be all."
She gave him an indignant look and walked out.
"Would you care to explain, Sergeant?"
"Sir?"
"What the hell happened tonight? I let you out for a quiet drink and the next thing I know you're restaging Santa Chico."
"There was some kind of argument. About a girl, I think. It sprang from that."
"Then it damn well shouldn't have sprang. For God's sake, you're supposed to stop this kind of thing."