Nicola Griffith - Slow River

“No,” Lore said. “I’m allergic.”

“Patches, too?”

She nodded. He sighed. “Well, that’s an inconvenience.”

He rummaged in his bag. Lore heard a light hiss, felt a cool mist on her back, tasted a faint antiseptic tang. The pain disappeared in a vast numbness. She knew he was swabbing out her wound but all she felt was a vague tugging.

“Clean enough for now.”

This time he took a roll of some white material from his bag. She shuddered, remembering the plasthene. He paused a moment, then unwrapped a couple of feet and cut it. It glinted. Some kind of metallic threads.

“What’s that?”

“You’ve never seen this before?” Spanner asked.

Lore shook her head. The numbness was wearing off.

“Here.”

Spanner passed her a hand mirror.

“Watch. It’s interesting.”

The medic, who did not seem to resent being cast as entertainment, was smearing the edges of her wound with a cold jelly and carefully laying the light material over it.

Then he unwrapped a few feet of electrical wire, attached it with crocodile clips to the material.

“What—”

“Stretch as much as you can.”

“It hurts.

“Do the best you can. When this sets, it sets.”

She did.

He plugged in the wires. Lore felt a quick, tingling shock around her wound, and the gauzy material leapt up from her back and formed a flexible, rigid cage over the gash, still attached to her skin where the medic had applied the cold jelly. He put away the roll and the wires, took something else out of his bag. She watched him carefully in the mirror. He held it up.

“Plaskin.”

This time the spray was throatier, lasted longer. When he was done, the raised white material, the jelly, and a two-inch strip of skin around the wound were all that pinkish bandage color that marketers called “flesh.” She looked as though she had a fat pink snake lying diagonally along her spine. He tapped it experimentally, nodded in satisfaction. “You won’t be able to lie down on it or lean against it, but you should be able to wear clothes in an hour or two, and the wound can breathe. For the next ten days bathe as normal. The plaskin will protect it. I’ll come back to take it off, make sure everything’s all right.” He put two vials of pills on the floor by her face. “This is all I have for now in the way of antibiotics and antivirals in pill form.” She could feel the drying plaskin begin to tug at the healthy skin on her back. “Is the pain very bad?”

“Yes.”

He knelt and Lore felt a cold wipe, then, the sliding pinch of a needle in the muscle at her shoulder. She could feel the drug spreading under her skin, like butter. He stood and said to Spanner, “This cream is for when the plas comes off. It’ll need rubbing into the scar three times a day to keep it supple. I don’t have any painkillers at all in pill form.”

“I’ve used needles before.”

Lore wondered how Spanner knew about needles, but it did not seem to worry the medic. He pulled out his slate. “What name do you want to use?” He looked from one to the other.

“Lore Smith,” Spanner said.

He scribbled. “This prescription is for the drug and disposable needles.” He looked up. “Which pharmacy—the Shu chain do?” Spanner nodded, and he pressed the SEND button, tucked the slate back in his pocket. “They’ll keep it on file for seven days; after that it’s invalid. Keep the dosage down if you can. And don’t give it to her more than every six hours.”

Lore did not like being discussed as though she were not there, but the painkiller was coating her face with ice and her brain with cobwebs. She lay in a daze as they moved off toward the door, still talking. He seemed unsurprised by her injury. She wondered what kinds of trauma he was used to dealing with, and how people usually got the kind of hurts that they did not want disclosing. Knife wounds, gunshots…

She fell asleep, woke up to swallow the two pills Spanner held out; a needle, in her buttock this time. She slept again. When she woke properly it was dark and she was covered with a soft quilt. She breathed quietly. Where the cloth touched the plaskin covering her wound, it did not hurt. She smiled at that. Such a simple thing, to not hurt.

Spanner was working at her bench, sharp halogen light pooling in front of her. She reached out, took a data slate from the pile in the shadow, hooked it up to a small gray, box, read something from the screen, laid it aside, took another slate.

Lore watched her for a while. This woman knew all about her: her name, age, family. If she cared to check, she could get information on education, hobbies, friends. Yet Lore knew nothing about her, did not even know if she had had any school, if she had ever been hurt, ever seen a medic under her real name. If she even had a real name. Some people, she knew, were illegitimate from birth—the fact of their existence not recorded anywhere. But that line of thought was too frightening. She yawned loudly.

Spanner swung round in her chair. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d given you too many pills. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty. And I need some clothes.”

“Both easily fixed.” She stood up and disappeared into the shadow. Red power points glowed from the dark. She brought back an old, soft shirt, some underwear, trousers. No shoes, Lore noticed, but then she doubted she would be going anywhere for a while.

“We’re about the same size, I think.” Spanner went into the kitchen.

Lore sat up, sucked her cheeks in at the pain but made no noise. She pulled on the clothes.

Spanner brought back water and coffee. She set Lore’s by the judo mat, took her own back to the bench.

Lore watched her awhile.

Spanner turned partway back toward her, impatient now. “What?” Her face glowed oddly in the white halogen and red power indicators. Like one of those late-sixties paintings that looked like a vase and then turned out to be two faces, Lore thought. She shook her head. Probably the drugs.

“If stealing from slates is so easy, then don’t you worry someone will do the same to yours?”

Spanner made a hating sound, halfway between amusement and cynicism. “I don’t often carry one. Or a phone.”

The only time Lore had not carried a slate was on the grounds at Ratnapida. Even then, it had made her feel naked: unable to reach or be reached. Also untraceable. Probably what Spanner liked. “But when you do,” she persisted.

“Then I use this.” She slid open a drawer and pulled out an ordinary-looking slate. “It’s almost empty. I clean it every time I get back here. Take a look.” She extended her hand. Lore had to drag herself up from her mat.

She looked it over, spotted the metal and ceramic protuberance immediately. “What’s this?”

“A lock.”

“But you said any code could—”

“It’s not a code. It’s an old-fashioned insert-key-and-turn lock. No one knows how they work anymore. Safe as the most modern encryption. For most people.”

“Most?”

“Hyn and Zimmer are so old that they remember some things. And they’ve taught them to me. But that’s all beside the point. This lock is like my tracking device. If someone is sharp enough, but dumb enough, to steal a slate that belongs to me, I’ll want to know who they are. After they’ve tried to puzzle out this monster, they’ll assume—wrongly, of course—that there must be some fabulous secrets on here, so sooner or later they’ll start asking around for anyone who knows anything about locks. And I’ll track them down. And then we’ll have a little chat.”

Lore looked at the bump of metal and ceramic on the plastic slate. A little chat. She thought of the medic who patched up ragged wounds without comment.