We Are The Remnant

Chapter 27

Four days: the time I was unconscious, according to Lieutenant Ultra. She visited me in the middle of the afternoon, as I lay in my bed in my compact bedroom. The scent: a grim cocktail of body odour and wet rot, compromised even Ultra's steadfast resolve, evident from her contorted face. At least my bandages were clean.

"She's changed them daily," Ultra muffled through her sleeve pressed against her nose. Of course, she referred to Morph. Dealing with me must have been more pleasant while I was asleep, given our episode in Berwyn.

Berwyn.

"Nothing more than a pile of cinders," Ultra's lip trembled.

"Quite the firestorm he ignited?" I referred to Knightmare.

"Indeed," she gulped, undoubtedly swallowing her grief to sustain her professionalism. "No one could survive that inferno."

We grieved in silence, then Ultra debriefed me regarding the events I had missed. Following our arrival, the squad received a hero's welcome and our minor celebrity status had soared. The ravaged Helena needed an uplifting tale, and so Bishop chose our story of seizing the dropship, surviving in Republic territory and escaping the Grenadiers.

"And when you're fitter," Ultra continued, "the Colonel wants you to make a speech to inspire the people." Bugger me if I'm doing that, I thought. "Something to ponder on during your infirmity. Now I need to help Surge train Rook appropriately. We'll speak soon, Captain." I thanked her and she departed.

I leaned to collect the glass of water on my bedside table when my shoulder ignited with pain, just as Morph entered to witness my groaning.

"Oh, I'll come back later," Morph said, her voice faltering.

"It's ok, um, please come in," I climbed under my duvet to hide my scantily clothed state, "can I help you with something?"

"No," she giggled as if performing, "that's the question I ask. Um. Let me check your bandages." She sat on the bed next to me to inspect my wounds, her tongue protruding slightly from the corner of her mouth. Peeling back the bed sheets, my t-shirt and the wound dressings, she pressed here and there to see where it hurt, retracting her hands whenever I winced. I noticed the stitches where I'd been shot; more scars for the collection.

"There's no sign of infection but I'm keeping you on antibiotics just in case. Your body will do the rest." She forced a smile and nodded several times through the awkward silence. I began to speak just as she did; we apologised simultaneously.

"Um. I'm sorry," I broke the deadlock, "I was complete idiot, the last time we properly spoke."

"No, it's fine," she touched my arm, "we were under immense pressure. I'm sorry for being ridiculous, wanting to stay in Berwyn." She looked at the ceiling and laughed, "I mean that idea was the worst, right?"

"Right," I said softly; I placed my hand on hers, "you know I'd be dead without you. Um, thank you."

"Only doing my duty, sir," she turned away.

"Morph," I touched her shoulder and tried to pull her back, but she shrugged it off.

"It's fine," she whimpered. But it wasn't. She started crying. Not bawling, wailing or even sobbing, but quietly sniffing; a calm, dignified cry, the kind our nation permitted. Tears gathered in her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I've done what I came to. I'll go. Rest well and take these antibiotics morning and evening." She dropped a bottle of pills on my bedside table, which toppled and rolled off. Grunting in frustration, she bent down to get them, and I grabbed her hand.

"Tell me what's wrong, Morph." I repeated myself when she didn't reply.

"They're dead!" She shouted, tearing away from my grasp. Her trunk shook from sobbing. I gave her a moment, offering my hand, which she accepted. With a pat on the bed I invited her to sit again. She fell into my torso and I held her tightly as her vocalised grief ran its course. Minutes later, she raised her head from my damp T-shirt. We continued our embrace with a sideways hug.

"If it wasn't for us, they might still be alive, the Berwyn folk," her speech returned to normal, punctuated by the occasional sniff. "Knightmare wanted us, because we took the files from the box. And I know I was rash. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have stayed, but I can't help but think of Dylan and Ceri. I clicked with them so well, and they said I could deliver their baby." She wiped the tears from her face with her jacket cuffs. "I suppose they represented some degree of hope for me, that one day I may do normal doctor things again, instead of removing bullets and stitching stab-wounds."

I raised my eyebrow.

"I'll still be your army medic," she prodded me in the belly, "but it would be nice once, just once, if I wasn't always surrounded by death."

"You regret your decision at Anches?" I asked.

"I don't know," her head found its home on my shoulder. "I came to the Reserve for humanitarian reasons. If my parents had their way I would have practised in London, close to them, but I wanted to help people less fortunate. I knew what I was leaving behind: wine bars, fancy meals, shopping, gym, coffee culture..."

"But if it wasn't for me..." I interrupted.

She laughed and shook her head, "if it wasn't for you, being so ballsy, okay maybe, but I don't regret it."

"We could have lived in the Republic, in safety; ordering anything online with Zappa and it be there within the hour; having spa days and drinking in nice pubs. Then afterwards, a pleasant stroll. Speaking of which..."

"That's wishful thinking. It's dangerous," Morph stared me down.

"The spa days?"

"The walking. I told you to rest. Do as your told." She squeezed my hand, and mouthed a bye, before leaving.

Sod it, I thought; doctors always exaggerate, just covering themselves from later blame. I sat upright, threw the bedclothes aside, swung myself ninety degrees. To shorten the pain, I concluded standing quickly was the way to go. On three, I launched myself to an upright position and a stabbing pain flooded my bad leg, rendering me bedridden as I creased in agony.