Welcome to the Madhouse Page 4

  Corporal McMullen pointed to a spot on the map far from where their position was. “Your quarters are here, Dr. Lord, at Station X423, Room 307978. Your wrist locator will always be able to assist you in finding your quarters, until you get the hang of things.

  “The surgical wards are here, at Stations C through to T. The operating rooms are at Stations D, G, J, M, P, and S, from 1 to 10. There are twelve operating rooms per station. Right now, Dr. Al-Fadi is operating in OR 1 at Station M7, which is right here.”

  Grace looked up at the station map and frowned.

  “My quarters are much too far from the surgical units, Corporal. This is completely unacceptable. According to this map, it could take me ages to get from my quarters to the surgical units. I prefer to be closer to the wards and not have to depend on catching monorails and antigrav shafts.

  “For now, Corporal, I don’t think I’ll waste any time going to a room that will not be mine. I’d like to go straight to Station M7 and join Dr. Al-Fadi. I’ll ask the staff there to store my gear, until you can arrange a billet change for me. Do you think you can arrange this?”

  The corporal blinked at her in surprise. “Those were the quarters of the previous surgical fellows, Lieutenant.”

  “I prefer to be much closer to the surgical wards, in case of emergencies, Corporal McMullen. Being so far away, according to this map, does not make sense to me. What if something critical occurs? What if there is an emergency? Does it make sense to you?”

  “ . . . Ah, no, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t,” the corporal said.

  “Then could you expedite the change in quarters for me, please?” Grace asked.

  “I will certainly do my best, Lieutenant,” the young man stated, his expression looking worried but sincere. It then changed to one of determination and he saluted Grace. “It will be my pleasure to assist you in this, Dr. Lord.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a grateful smile. “Now, let us go find Dr. Al-Fadi.”

  They rode for a few more stops. People, androids, and robots whisked on and off, the androids and robots always taking up positions in the center of the aisle, to act as handrails for passengers. Grace wondered if that was their sole purpose but, no, they got on and off the train like other personnel, rushing away to do their duty. But while on the train, in the braking of the high speed monorail, the androids and robots always positioned themselves to protect the passengers. Grace was suitably impressed, as she had to grab ahold of the same android Corporal McMullen was hanging onto, when there was a rapid deceleration for the next station.

  Grace was wondering if she should thank the android, before she stepped off the monorail, when Corporal McMullen announced, “Dr. Lord, this next stop is Station M7. We can disembark here and I will show you to the nursing station, where they can direct you to the operating rooms. They will show you where everything is and give you a quick orientation, before taking you to where Dr. Al-Fadi is operating.”

  “Thank you for your help, Corporal,” Grace smiled. “It has been an enjoyable tour so far.” She stuck her hand out to the corporal.

  At first, the young officer just stared at her hand, as if he did not know what to do. Then his entire body jerked and he took her right hand in his, shaking it vigorously. Just then, the monorail began braking and Grace and Corporal McMullen would have gone flying, if it were not for the android reaching out and steadying both of them. Grace thanked the android while Corporal McMullen gave her a startled look.

  The android nodded at her.

  “It has been my pleasure to assist you and I will get on the billet change, right away, Dr. Lord,” Corporal McMullen said. “I will be waiting at the M7 nursing station when your surgery is completed, to escort you to your new quarters.”

  “No need, Corporal,” Grace said. “The surgery could go on for hours, depending on what it is. You must not waste your time. Just leave a message at the nursing station or send the location through to my wrist-comp. I am sure I can find my new quarters on my own. If not, I will just use a call room. They do have those on each ward, do they not?”

  “Yes, they do, but I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to do that, Dr. Lord,” McMullen said, as he shook his head. “It’s my duty to orientate you to the medical station and get you settled in your own quarters. I would like to fulfill my duty.”

  “Corporal McMullen,” Grace said, with an understanding smile, “you have your duties and I have mine. We are obviously both serious about our work and, far be it from me to interfere with yours, when you are so graciously accommodating my requests, however I am here to assist Dr. Al-Fadi, the Chief of Staff at this medical station. I’m sure his demands will supersede any duties you have been assigned. Perhaps we can do the orientation when I have some free time.”

  The corporal hesitated, then nodded, his face creased in a reluctant expression that struck Grace as a cross between a sad puppy and a thwarted child, but he executed a slight bow in acquiescence.

  The monorail came to a smooth stop at M7 station and the two stepped off. The platform—its walls entirely lit up in a stunning rainforest scene, with yellow sunlight pouring down through tall, dark, tree trunks, looping lianas, and a towering canopy with exotic birds calling—cleared quickly of disembarking personnel. Grace stopped, totally captivated by the beautiful display projected from the station walls. As she drank up the breath-taking beauty of this shadowy, lush, rainforest scene, they were suddenly immersed within a deep, crystalline-blue, icy crevice of some frozen world, looking up at a black, starry sky far overhead.

  “This is beautiful,” Grace gasped, almost expecting to see her breath materialize in the coolness of the scene.

  “Yes, it is,” McMullen said. “I had the same reaction when I first rode the monorail. Sometimes, I would ride just to view the different worlds. If you program your wrist-comp, it will tell you what planet each of these scenes is from. Each view really exists somewhere out there, taken by a planetary explorer or photographer or investigative scientist. It allows one to get a sense of how beautiful and varied our galaxy is . . . and how lucky we are to be a part of it all.”

  “I could stand here, all shift, just watching the views change,” Grace said, in awe.

  “Then you would be in big trouble with the Chief. Believe me,” McMullen laughed. “He does not have the greatest reputation for being patient.”

  “Then I had better stop sight-seeing,” Grace said.

  She spoke “Station M7 OR 1” into her wrist-comp, to see what would happen. Bright strip-lighting in a beautiful shade of teal green appeared, running along the deep blue wall of the station and down one corridor off to her left.

  “Even the directory lighting blends with the gorgeous scenery,” Grace exclaimed in amazement. “This station has some unexpected and delightful features.”

  “All ideas of Dr. Al-Fadi,” the corporal said. “When he became Chief of Staff, there were a lot of changes made to the medical station upon his direction. The monorail wall projections was just one of many. He feels that happy personnel improves productivity.”

  “I don’t know, Corporal. These scenes are so beautiful, I’m afraid I could get distracted by them.”

  “You don’t want to face the wrath of Dr. Al-Fadi, Dr. Lord. I would advise only sightseeing when you are on your own time,” McMullen said, concern on his pale face.

  “Will do, Corporal. Thanks again for the advice. Now, I think I can find my own way. No need to babysit,” Grace said, cheerfully. “Besides, you have some serious billet searching to do. I will leave you to it . . . and thank you.”

  “All right, Lieutenant,” the young man said. He saluted.

  Grace saluted back and slung her duffel bag over her left shoulder. She gave the corporal a grateful nod and turned to follow the illuminated line. It had now turned a burnt orange hue, in contrast to the vast desert scene that was now depicted on the station walls. She almost had to close her eyes, to force herself to leave the captivating vista b
efore her. Limping down a couple of long, brightly lit corridors and waving her wrist-comp before a few door pads to gain access to areas that were restricted to ‘Medical Personnel Only’, Grace finally reached the M7 nursing station. There, she introduced herself.

  In the manner of all head nurses everywhere, the stern-looking woman in charge scowled ferociously at Grace, leaned towards her with a disapproving look and snarled, “You’re late!”

  Chapter Three: The Great One

  “I am Head Nurse Virginia Conti,” the severe-looking woman almost spat out, biting each word as if it were tough leather. She scrutinized Grace, from head to toe, as if Grace was some repulsive unpleasantness she had just discovered on the bottom of her spotless shoe. The nurse did not bother to hide her disappointment at what she saw.

  As Grace was about to respond, a booming voice blared into the nurses’ station, yelling, “Nurse Conti, is that new surgical fellow here yet? What the hell is she doing? Taking a tour of the entire facility, while we are slaving away here? Hunt her down and remind her why she is supposed to be here!”

  Nurse Conti just rolled her weary eyes and sighed in vexation. She switched the sound of the intercom off with a definitive slap of her palm. Raising her thick, curly eyebrows, Nurse Conti shot Grace ‘the look’ that communicated louder than words, ‘Do you see what I have to put up with?’

  “Welcome to Surgical Ward M7, Dr. Lord . . . I hope,” Nurse Conti said, in the least welcoming voice Grace had ever heard. Nurse Conti gave another annoyed sigh.

  “I’m afraid Dr. Al-Fadi has called, at least three times in the last few minutes, to ask if you have arrived yet. Fourth, now. He is impatiently awaiting you in OR 1, in case you hadn’t heard.

  “The patient he is operating on was brought in from the far outposts near Dais, where there has been a lot of action lately. This patient arrived with hundreds of other casualties, in cryopods, many with very serious injuries, with the ridiculous expectation that we, here at the medical station, put them all back together nice and neatly so the Conglomerate can send them all back out to fight again. May all the gods that exist, and even those that don’t, give us strength,” Nurse Conti snarled, grinding her teeth and huffing out her cheeks. She rolled her expressive eyes, again, and shook her grey-haired head.

  Grace could not help but stare at this woman in wide-eyed astonishment. Not only had it been a while since Grace had seen anyone with grey hair, but she would not have been the least bit surprised if the Head Nurse suddenly began to change into a wolf, right before her eyes. Most people, nowadays, had their scalps genetically manipulated to prevent greying but, in the case of this woman with the severe, sarcastic demeanor, the grey hair pulled stiffly back into a tight bun lent an air of unquestioning authority and no-nonsense. She just demanded respect.

  Grace imagined this woman tamed every last wiry, curly, defiant grey hair on her head, just to make a point. In a flash of intuition, Grace realized this was probably why Nurse Conti sported it. She probably viewed each doctor she met, as one of those hairs to be aligned and controlled.

  “This way, Doctor,” the head nurse scowled. The word ‘Doctor’ sounded more like an insult, than anything else. Conti spun around, abruptly, and marched off, not waiting to see if Grace was following. Grace suspected that Nurse Conti did not appreciate interruptions in her day—including the sudden appearance of a new surgical fellow, who had to be orientated—nor did she seem to have any patience for demanding, screaming, impatient surgeons.

  Head Nurse Conti showed Grace to the women’s change room, where Grace could lock up her gear and change into operating room scrubs, the universal horrid green uniform of the OR. Grace was told, sharply, to: “Make it quick and not keep Dr. Al-Fadi waiting.”

  Grace found a locker that she hoped would fit her duffel bag and, after stuffing most of it inside, threw herself against the door to force it shut. With her full weight leaning in to the locker door, she quickly palmed the lock and relaxed with a sigh. With all the new technological wizardry out there, why had no one ever created a bigger, better locker? One where the contents of the locker actually sat in a different dimension, so that one could throw just about anything, of any size, into the locker and yet easily close the door. Grace groaned as she stood up and rubbed her sore back. She went in search of the baggy, shapeless, operating room clothing that had been her second skin for years.

  She quickly found a disposable hair covering in which to wrap up her long, blonde hair, and a surgical mask to seal around her mouth and nose. Thank goodness it covered a lot of the bruises and abrasions. She madly scrubbed her hands and forearms with stinging antiseptic/antiviral soap and then placed her hands under the sterilizer beam. Flipping them over, back and forth a few times, she then thrust her hands into the glover. Her hands were now coated with fine pliable sterile gloves and she hurriedly backed into the operating room, hands held up in the air to keep from contaminating herself.

  “Dr. Lord, I presume,” she heard a resonating voice boom, as soon as she had gotten through the door. “What have you been doing? What has taken you so long to get here? Did you traipse around the entire medical space station, before you decided to grace us with your presence? Do I sense a lack of commitment in your attitude, already?”

  Halting just inside the operating room entrance, Grace’s mouth dropped open. Her mind, momentarily, went blank and her throat just seemed to constrict. Her cheeks ignited into hot flames and her body broke out in a sweat. It was as if she had suddenly stepped backwards into her childhood, feeling ashamed and remorseful for getting caught doing something forbidden.

  How had this seemingly disembodied voice achieved this reaction in her? Grace had not felt this way in a long time, and she took exception to being made to feel it, especially since she had done nothing of which she was being accused. Her embarrassment turned rapidly into anger, like dry tinder suddenly touched by a flame.

  Grace noticed someone, very tall and thin, winking at her above his surgical mask. From the position in which he was standing in the operating theater, at the head of the surgical table, surrounded by monitors, beeping machines, computer consoles, and intravenous tubing, she assumed he was the anesthetist.

  “Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord, do not just stand there, lolly-gagging. Come forward!” bawled the voice. “This person, at the head of the operating table, is Dr. Dejan Cech, our esteemed anesthetist,” the voice resounded. The tall, winking man executed a slight bow towards her and gave a slight nod of his head.

  “You may totally ignore him from now on, Dr. Lord, as he is not important in the least . . . and totally uninteresting, besides. On the other hand, the individual standing next to me, acting as my scrub nurse slash assistant—because you have been so blatantly and irresponsibly tardy in arriving—is SAMM-E 777, our surgical operating android and my experimental protégé.”

  The surgical assisting android just stared at her, huge-eyed and expressionless.

  “I, of course, am the Great Dr. Hiro Al-Fadi. You may address me as ‘Great One’ any time you wish. You must not genuflect to me while you are sterile. You, of course, can genuflect to me later.”

  Grace opened her mouth to reply but did not get a chance to respond or even to utter a sound.

  “I must tell you, Dr. Lord, that I am most jealous of your surname. There can be only one ‘god’ around here, and I am it. I’m afraid I am going to have to think of a new name for you, as ‘Dr. Lord’ just rubs me the wrong way . . . because I want it for myself. If I can’t have the name, ‘Dr. Lord’, I don’t see why you should have that name either.”

  Grace’s eyebrows rose at that.

  “I am guessing that you will have a lot of names for me very soon, Dr. Al-Fadi,” Grace remarked, in a dry tone. “I hope that some of them may even be complementary.”

  “Well, that remains to be seen, Dr. Grace, doesn’t it? Remains to be seen. Ah! ‘Dr. Grace’! I like that much better than ‘Dr. Lord’. ‘Dr. Grace’ sounds much less imposing and th
reatening. It makes me feel less competitive, already.

  “SAMM-E 777, would you please get Dr. Lord—I mean, ‘Dr. Grace’—into her surgical gown? I hope you don’t mind me calling you ‘Dr. Grace’, Dr. Grace, and even if you do, I don’t really care. It is unfortunate that you were so late getting here, since we really could have used your expertise. We are almost done here. You obviously must have gone for a picnic, before you came to find us. I will have you know that the Nelson Mandela is not a tourist attraction. It is a medical space station and you are not here to sight-see, but to work.

  “What is the problem with youth these days, Dr. Cech? I tried to wait but, as you can see, Dr. Grace, it wasn’t in the patient’s best interest. This poor, unfortunate patient has had to make do with my meager talents alone.”

  “‘Meager’ would be far too complementary a word,” Grace thought she heard Dr. Cech mumble.

  After quickly being gowned by the surgical assistant android, SAMM-E 777, Grace stepped up to the operating table and jerked. She found the diminutive surgeon, Dr. Hiro Al-Fadi, elbows deep within the mighty cavity of a tiger soldier’s chest. From what the surgeon had been insinuating, Grace was expecting to see Dr. Al-Fadi closing up the patient, but that was not the case at all. Instead of healthy organs in this patient’s chest and abdomen, this poor soul had a cavity of disaster. Grace’s mind reeled as she looked down at the horrible devastation that was all that was left of this tiger-adapted human body, lying on the operating table before her.

  “What is the matter, Dr. Grace? Have you never seen an open chest cavity before?”

  Grace looked up at Dr. Hiro Al-Fadi, aghast. She had never seen anyone, as badly damaged as this patient, even make it to an operating table before. There was hardly anything left in his chest and abdomen to salvage. She could not imagine how this man was even still alive. Dr. Cech had to be a miracle worker, because this poor soldier, anywhere else in the USS, would not have even been considered an operable candidate.