“Get me Doc—quick!” The terrible urgency in Chip’s voice had fat Fal leaving at a belly-wobbling run, and bellowing for the medic.
Chapter 48: Or maybe not.
Doc came at a dogtrot. Well, a rat-trot. And he was carrying his pack, which he’d found. He took one look at Chip’s pale face and said: “And which one is the patient, Fal?”
Chip was in no mood for funnies.
“She got hit on head by one of those fragments. Right on her soft-cyber implant. Help her, Doc! Please! She’s bleeding something terrible.”
The rat looked at Chip very strangely. Very strangely indeed. But, for a miracle, he didn’t actually say anything. He just began examining Ginny’s head, gently and carefully. He reached into his pack and produced a scalpel. Chip’s eyes widened in horror. “Please, God . . .”
“I thought you were an agnostic,” said the rat-medic. “Relax. I just need to remove some hair.”
“You’re . . . you’re not going to operate?”
Doc snuffled with what might have been laughter. “Chip, I’m a field medic and a rat. What do think I’m going to do? Open brain surgery? I’d get you to do it except your hands are shaking too much.”
The rat shaved the patch. “Get Bronstein for me,” he said.
“I’m here. Above you,” Bronstein replied.
“How is your infrasound examination of bones?” Doc asked. “In theory you should be able to do it.”
Bronstein looked doubtful. “To be sure, if I have wet contact . . .”
“You can ‘trink her bludd,’ ” said Doc dryly.
Bronstein put her ugly crumpled leaf nose against Ginny’s bloody head.
The bat pulled it away. “This is giving me a headache.”
“No holes?” asked the rat.
“Not even a crack, that I can find.” Bronstein wiped her nose with a wing. Then sneezed.
The medic nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. Open your eyes, Ginny.”
She did. “Everything is all blurry, Doc.”
“That’s because you’ve lost your glasses.” The rat’s tone was bone dry.
“Oh. I . . . I didn’t realize.” She felt her head vaguely.
Chip pulled her hand away gently and kissed her. “Your face is just as beautiful without them.”
“Get your big head out of the way. I need to check pupil dilation.” Doc pushed him aside.
“Well?” asked Chip anxiously.
“Well, what? Hold this pad on the wound, Ginny. I don’t think it is even going to need stitching. That bandana of yours saved you a bit.”
“Well, is she going to be all right?” demanded Chip, on the verge of grabbing Doc and shaking him . . . like a terrier shakes rats.
“Medically, there appears to be no obvious fracture. I suppose we can’t rule out the chance of a hairline crack. She may have had a slight concussion but she’s got nice even pupil dilation.” Doc continued packing away his tools.
“But why all the blood?” Chip demanded.
“Head wounds bleed, Chip,” replied Doc evenly. “Even minor ones like this.”
Chip swallowed. In a small voice he said, “But what about her soft-cyber chip. Is that all right? Is there anything we can do for it?
Doc shook his head and looked quizzically at Chip. “So you are now entirely in favor of soft-cyber chips? So! A new record for thesis becoming antithesis!”
Chip took Doc gently by the throat.
“He’s just giving you a hard time, Chip,” said Bronstein. “They showed us in basic training. Soft-cybers are tough. You can drive a ten ton truck over one. Now, let him examine your shoulder and then he can come and sew Eamon’s wing up.”
“Besides,” chuckled Doc, “they are embedded between the parietal lobes. You’d have to turn the brain to jelly first.”
* * *
Chip had a neat bandage on his shoulder. The Jampad was speaking to the others in Korozhet. Fal was making a fire for a Magh’mmm barbecue. Chip put his uninjured arm around Ginny. “Dearest, you and I have to have a deep, serious talk.”
“Only talk?” she said provocatively, from under her lashes. She giggled. As good as a rat-girl’s repartee!
Chip blushed. “Well . . . all right. Soon.” He hooked a thumb at the Jampad. “What’s he saying?”