Phoebe and the Traitor

Phoebe: 1

"Fie, foh and fum," Louise said from the hospital bed as Phoebe entered the room. "Of the three, my favorite is thee, Phoe."

"You always go with Shakespeare," Phoebe said, placing a small pewter figurine on the empty food tray. "I prefer Jack and the Beanstalk. 'Fee-fi-fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive, or be he dead. I'll grind his bones to make my bread'." She paused in thought. "I think Fromm sounds English. I'm gonna crush him."

"Oh, Phoe," Louise said with a shake of her head and a smile. "Fromm is Germanic."

"Whatever," Phoebe said. "I don't care where his ancestors came from, I know his future. The traitor's gonna die for doing this to you."

Louise's lovely halo of long golden hair was piled on the pillow, imperfect because of the bandage over the wound Fromm had given her before escaping the Organization and stealing the highly classified Orion encryption program and proving he was a traitor. She frowned at the figurine. "Gollum? I don't like him."

"But now you have all the hobbits," Phoebe pointed out. She loved listening to Louise speak in her deep Kathleen Turner voice and while she'd enjoy sitting and listening, work was calling. Plus, Phoebe hated hospitals. They were always full of sick people, which was logical but that didn't mean she had to like it.

"Was Fromm our Gollum at the Organization?" Louise asked as she sat up. Her left cheek was covered by a white bandage over the cut Fromm had inflicted. Her right arm ended just above the elbow, a disability she'd been born with.

"No," Phoebe said. "Gollum served a purpose. Fromm is worse than worthless. He betrayed us and he's still out there. But we'll find him."

They were on the fifth floor of the Fort Meade post hospital and it was time for Louise to check out. Phoebe, at five-four, much shorter than Louise, had rolled in a wheel chair for the event. She was in her late twenties and petite, with a wiry body, muscles rippling like whipcord under a black body suit. She wore a red blazer over that, the inside lined with various weapons. Her favorite, a Japanese short sword called a wakizashi, was hidden inside the coat in the center of her back, like an external spine of steel with the handle just under the collar. If someone looked for it, of course they'd spot the outline of the sword, but who is going to question a woman carrying a sword? Best to be silent and move on.

Phoebe's short black hair, with a bad red dye job mixing it up, was spiked, pointing in different directions indicating an indifference to style or perhaps an unwillingness to spend the time organizing it. Given it was Phoebe, it was a combination. Her eyes were icy blue and tiny lines of worry, too many for someone her age were emerging at the edges.

Phoebe indicated the already packed small bag. "That's everything?"

Louise nodded. "I don't need the wheelchair."

"Hospital rules."

"Since when do you worry about rules?" Louise asked.

"When it involves getting you out of here," Phoebe responded. "Some of these nurses scare me."

"Nobody scares you, Phoebe," Louise said as she swiveled in the bed and put her feet on the ground.

That gave Phoebe pause. "You did. When I heard you were hurt, it made me feel—" she shook her head unable to finish the thought, or, more appropriately, delve into the emotion behind the thought.

"Hey," Louise said, reaching out.

Phoebe took her hand and then hugged her, careful not to touch the bandage on Louise's head as she pulled her to her chest. The two remained like that for a long ten seconds, before Phoebe stirred.