Twisted Metal Heart - Eve Langlais Page 0,3
bleeding man, unable to explain why she had ignored a basic safety requirement.
She’d not even known the man was out there until the citadel was partially raised. She’d been impatient to be above the ground and maybe enjoy some actual air and starlight. They didn’t dare expose the citadel in daytime when they would be visible. Hiding only worked if no one saw you. Which meant, when she realized he was out there, she’d had a choice.
The easy one being to let nature take its course. Stupid man unprotected in the Wasteland at night. Dinner for the locals.
But then the stranger had glanced at the citadel, given it a good long stare, as if he could see her watching. Not only spot her but condemn her for doing nothing.
What choice was there? How many times had it been drilled into her that strangers meant danger? The only good wanderer was a dead one.
Yet, instead of letting the tigber handle him, she’d gone on the attack and brought a stranger in. Now she felt the angst. Had she exposed them by rescuing him? Then again, she had to wonder, was keeping safe worth the price of turning a blind eye?
The man on the table wouldn’t think so. He’d probably whine she’d come to his aid too late when he should be thanking her for saving him at all.
Alfred ran digitized fingers over the man’s flesh. The sensors in the pads gave him an excellent ability to diagnose. He spoke aloud as he rendered the results in simple terms. They kept the technical stuff for the reports they could study later.
“Contusions on more than forty-seven percent of his body. Minor lacerations over seventeen percent. His left arm is severely mangled. Missing sizable amounts of tissue and all related components close to it. His right leg below the knee is in the same condition. His heart is struggling as well. The breakage of his ribs is causing stress, and I expect if he doesn’t expire of his wounds, he’ll have a heart attack.”
“In other words, you expect him to die.”
Alfred kept running his fingers over the man. He didn’t frown, didn’t do anything at all. One hundred percent efficient. That never changed. “He doesn’t have to die, but it might be kinder.”
“He’s young.” Close in age to her she’d wager. Not quite thirty but getting there.
“Young or old, those wounds will kill him.”
“You think infection will set in.” All the medical advances and equipment sometimes couldn’t prevail when an infection stubbornly claimed a human.
“Yes. We could excise more flesh to try and stop it, but then he’d have almost nothing left but bone.”
She sighed. “You can say it aloud. I won’t freak.”
The stranger needed amputation. A permanent exile for anyone living in Emerald City, where perfection was paramount. She rubbed her arm.
“Section from the shoulder down should be removed, along with the leg, at the very least. The heart, too, if we want to be thorough.”
Riella shook her head. “Arm and leg yes. Let’s hold off on the heart.” Because that was a dangerous one to play with.
“You can’t be serious. Why do anything?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Have you been smoking the moss again? This is most certainly the inanest option.”
Alfred’s wheels hummed as he went around the bed to the other side. His fingers ran along more of the stranger’s flesh. He didn’t actually clean anything or do much other than scan. The machines all around did most of the work. Alfred relayed what he saw and told the proper tools what to do. Right now, they cleaned the man, removing his clothing with the delicate slice of lasers that didn’t even singe skin. Warm water with a mix of antibacterial solution sprayed over him, sluicing away the blood and dirt, revealing his partially tanned flesh. Head and hands were darkest followed by his arms. Even his chest had some color, but the upper part of his thighs was pure white.
She blinked. “He’s two-toned.”
“He spends a lot of time outdoors, I posit.” Alfred lifted the hand and showed the fingers. “Calloused. Meaning he’s a worker.”
“Does he have the gene marker?” she asked.
“The test is still running.”
She eyed the unbroken parts of his body. “He’s very fit. And given his gear wasn’t dome-issued, I’m going to predict he’s a Wastelander.” She didn’t use the derogatory name of Rat so popular in the city. Nor would she call him Deviant, the other rude term usually given to those with extra parts.
Alfred moved