In the year I’ve been here, I’ve only seen the Magistrate twice. Once, after my failed escape attempt, and again when he was giving a tour to someone he kept calling, “my Queen”.
I still don’t know who that “Queen” was, but the day she was brought into the gladiator’s quarters was the only time I’ve seen the Magistrate down here. My deduction: If I want an audience with the Magistrate, I either have to break a law and hope he wants to admonish me before my death, or wait for the Queen to come back and hope there aren’t many guards around. Obviously, the second option is dumb. The first one is too, but it’s less dumb than the alternative.
All I know for certain is that I can’t keep living like this, and I refuse to die before doing everything in my power to take the Magistrate out. It’s clear he doesn’t see women as a physical threat, and it’s also clear that out of all the nurses here, I’m probably the only one with the training to actually take the fucker down. After spending almost eight years with the Marines, I have a bias for action and the resolve to see that action through.
“I’m sorry about Naxiur,” I say to Roveen.
She shows her teeth in a sign of gratitude. “Thank you.”
I open my mouth to respond right as the door of the Nurse’s Room bursts open. Still seated, I spin around and find the slimy reptilian guard panting for breath in the doorway. Somehow, he’s managed to make himself look even more repulsive in the past hour. It’s like he’s sweating slime.
“You!” he shouts, pointing a hideous finger at me. “We require you!”
I glance at Roveen, and she lowers her antenna, clearly just as displeased by the situation as I am. Nurses aren’t supposed to go on emergency calls without Solta’s permission, but once again, I can’t really say “no” to a guard.
With a reassuring nod to Roveen, I follow the lizard out the door.
He takes off down the hall, his short legs propelling him with anxious purpose while I struggle to keep up. A minute later, we skid to a stop in front of Cell 29, and instantly my heart starts thrumming again. As much as I’d love to stop and consider what that means, the lizard is already shouting.
“He is still bleeding! You must help him. Hecannotdie here.” His voice is breathless and frantic with concern. Which is weird. Guards don’t usually care about the gladiators. “Help him!” he shouts.
I thrust my hand towards the wall of steel between me and Vexar. “What am I supposed to do through a closed door?”
“Tell him what to do!”
He wants me to talk the guy through it? I’m not a 911 operator, I’m a fucking Corpsman.Or … I was. Whatever. Not important right now.I glance at the other guard, who seems to be more focused on his hands than on what’s going on around him.Unhelpful bastard.With a sigh, I turn back to the lizard.
“His name is …?” I ask, not wanting to reveal my earlier eavesdropping as I move towards the door.
“Vexar,” the lizard supplies.
“Vexar?” I ask, projecting my voice through the door. A rumbling grunt answers, and my heart stutters uncomfortably. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Blood,” Vexar says.
It’s been at least an hour since I delivered the med-bag. The fact that he’s still bleeding and alive is both impressive and concerning.
“How much blood?” I ask.
“A lot.”
If his physiology is anything like a human’s, he’d already be in shock. But with aliens, there’s no telling what sort of adaptations they’ve developed to deal with blood loss. A month ago, I treated a guy whose circulatory system had cut-off valves that would trade a limb to save his life. It was gross, but effective.
“Where’s the injury?” I ask.
“My flank.”
I pepper him with a few more questions, trying to gauge the situation, and it’s not comforting. If he doesn’t pack the wound and control the bleeding, he’s not going to last much longer.
“Do you still have fresh gauze?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“One roll.”
Shit. That’s not enough.
