Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

“He’s in Obstetrics,” the man told him.

Bragg’s heart rose to his throat. The Pediatric and Obstetric wing of every hospital on Nivia were veritable fortresses—any incident that occurred inside the enclave was by definition serious. There had been plenty of those over time, primarily infant kidnappings, but significant numbers of assaults on children as well. The most horrific had occurred in that very hospital fifteen years earlier when a deranged couple penetrated security with a number of weapons, targeting expectant mothers.

Eighteen were killed, not including the suspects, and nine seriously wounded before it was over.

The armored portal leading into the wing was propped open, watched over by the hospital’s own formidable armed security. They passed Bragg straight through with only a cursory inspection of his credentials and it was soon apparent why: every patient within had already been evacuated except for the dead.

Another pair of medics, accompanied by a security guard and a doctor, came around a corner guiding a gurney. The occupant, a woman in a nurse’s uniform, exhibited the vacant stare of shock or heavy sedation. The doctor held a file folder over her face as they left the portal to prevent her image from being captured outside.

Alan Chin was close behind and nodded toward a conference room when he saw Bragg. The man didn’t look good at all. “It’s bad,” he said once they were inside. “Seven dead in infant ICU and three adults upstairs.”

“How?”

“Unconfirmed, but it looks like a number of bad oxygen bottles. The three adults went first, starting about four this morning. They were all in pretty bad shape, so nobody got suspicious until it hit this wing.

“The monitors on the incubators alarmed at the same time—blood oxygen levels in all the infants took a nose dive. The head nurse on duty kept bumping up the oxygen levels, but that only made it worse. That was her you saw coming in.”

Bragg closed his eyes. It was difficult to shunt emotion aside when the victims were children, but it had to be done if answers were to be found and additional deaths or injuries prevented. “Who’s managing the incident for the hospital?”

“Doctor Lauder, the chief physician—that’s him now.”

The door opened and the doctor he’d seen escorting the nurse out of the building entered. His face was pinched and very pale. “How is she?” Bragg asked after the introductions were made.

“Distraught,” Lauder replied. “We’re all very upset.”

“I understand,” Bragg said. “Do you have any immediate patient welfare issues to take care of?”

“No. All patients requiring oxygen have been transported to other facilities and we’re not admitting any more until this is cleared up. I’ve notified them to check their oxygen, also. It will take us four or five hours to complete those checks here.”

“I need you to stop that immediately,” Bragg ordered. “It runs the risk of destroying or tampering with potential evidence.”

“Tampering?” Lauder grunted. “Do you mean to suggest that this incident was caused deliberately by someone on my staff?”

“I don’t mean to suggest anything,” Bragg assured him. “It’s a matter of forensics, and I’d appreciate your voluntary cooperation.”

“Yes, of course,” Lauder nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

“I’ll have a team assembled in a few hours,” Bragg said. “They’ll need full access to the area; it will be helpful if someone is available to unlock doors and answer questions.”

“Be honest with me,” Lauder said before Bragg left to start making his calls. “You don’t believe that this was deliberate, do you?” The look in his eyes made it plain what he wanted to hear, but Bragg had never been one to give false assurances.

“I hope not, doctor. I sincerely hope not.”

Terson and Virene returned to the disarray that was their new apartment. Packing boxes sat where they’d been left next to a dozen wrapped gifts from Virene’s friends. Several pieces of new furniture were pushed up against the living room wall, still covered in plastic. A pile of envelopes and circulars lay on the floor under the mail slot. Most of it was addressed to the previous tenant, but Virene sorted out a thick wad intended for the two of them.

Three were bills, the rest congratulatory cards from the same friends who attended the wedding and sent the gifts. Virene opened them excitedly, gushing over the sentiments expressed within, making careful note of the senders so she wouldn’t overlook any of the requisite thank-you’s. One expensive-looking, pearl-white envelope kept appearing in her hand only to be moved to the bottom of the pile. Eventually it remained the only one unopened, but Virene didn’t appear inclined to change that. Terson leaned over for a closer look.

It was from her parents.

Virene studiously ignored his questioning glance. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“No.”

“They’re your parents.”

“It’s from Mother,” Virene clarified, “and she expressed herself very clearly last time. I’m not going through that again.”

Terson found her family’s whole relationship confusing and contrary to what he was certain was normal for most people. The clearest memories of his own parents and sibling centered on their deaths and he’d never put much effort into holding on to them. A collective of Boss Hanstead’s household staff had raised Terson until Boss sent him to live in the hired hands’ quarters when he was fourteen. He’d never lacked for affection and support from the people around him, but they had families of their own and Terson had always believed that those children had something wonderfully special.

Boss Hanstead, a spouseless, childless workaholic had steadfastly refused to let Terson be adopted into any of those families, insisting that such attachments would leave him soft. The subject resulted in frequent, vehement arguments between him and his head housekeeper, Marta, the closest thing Terson had to a mother.

Terson felt a deep sense of loss for years after she died of a fever when he was seventeen. He found it incomprehensible that a parent and child could disappoint each other so badly that they would forever cut off all civil contact. He didn’t want Virene to miss a chance at reconciliation out of stubbornness.

“It might be her way of making amends for that,” Terson suggested.

Virene’s eyes glistened. “You can open it if you want.”

Terson felt like he was intruding on an exceptionally personal matter when he broke the seal, but he hoped he was right. The addressing on the outside held both their names, whereas Virene’s mother had declined to acknowledge his existence except in the abstract in all other correspondence.

The outside of the card was pristine and attractive. He opened it to find the pre-printed message carefully blackened out and the surrounding blank spaces filled with vicious insults in neat, feminine handwriting.

Terson slipped the card back into the envelope. “You don’t want to read this.” He tore the card into tiny pieces and they never spoke of Virene’s family again.

Halsor Tennison shaded his eyes against the glare off the water. His shuttle wallowed at neutral buoyancy, bare centimeters above the surface. Occasional waves washed across the hull, splashing his feet while a launch cut toward him from shore.

Hal tossed his bag into the small boat, stumbled onto the dipping bow, and dropped awkwardly into a seat. He twisted his back as he went, sending a bolt of pain through his right leg. The pilot’s dark almond eyes regarded him inscrutably as he spun the tiny craft and headed for shore. Hal punched a key on his remote, sending his shuttle to the bottom in a foam of venting ballast.