As I lay motionless in my bunk, I considered the past several weeks.
I didn't entirely keep my head down in training. I just couldn't help myself, but the Drill Sergeants kept punishing us as a group for anything that I did myself, which I didn't feel was very fair until I thought about why they were doing it and got a seriously large dump of information from the psychological portion of my medical sense. That made everything make sense, finally, and probably would have been obvious, but I had never been involved in anything like this, not even the Girl Scouts.
After that, I just sighed and buckled down. It grated on me a little, which I realised meant my mentality had changed quite a bit. I used to be very used to keeping my head down and trying to hide, not just from the Trio, but I felt the entire school was either out to get me or just didn't care.
Now my first instinct was to push back when I felt someone was being unfair to me. That was different, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was not necessarily a change for the better. I didn't think the world I was living in was one where fairness was a really important part of how anyone interacted with anyone else, especially those with authority interacting with those who did not have any.
It was depressing to think about, but I might not live to a ripe old age if I let this new instinct go wild in my everyday interactions with people, so I decided to reign myself in and "cooperate and graduate." I also felt like it wasn't a great idea to give the corporation I now worked for an accurate idea of my psychological profile, either.
As such, my fellows in my platoon were much less pissed off with me once I stopped mouthing off and attempting malicious compliance with the Drill Sergeants, and I think they just took it as me being a typical teenager. They didn't particularly mind too much because other than that, I was one of the best performing of us two dozen or so people in most of the parts of the course.
I was surprised, thinking that the two-month course would be full of paramedics, but it turned out that most Trauma Team employees would take it eventually if they did not have recent past military experience. The actual security and military guys took different and more strenuous courses, but half of the people in my platoon were regular office employees, including a couple of entry-level supervisors. Clearing the course was a prerequisite to reaching middle management, apparently, with the exception of certain staff positions that weren't considered line managers, like attorneys.
That was somewhat similar to the way Militech ran things from my memories, where all line managers had a reserve commission in their armed forces and occasionally a duplicate reserve commission in the NUSA armed forces also. My Alt-Dad had been an active duty Major in the Militech armed forces and held a reserve commission as a Captain in the NUSA military as well.
It took me forever to fall asleep, which was a real problem. I was so used to just putting a hat on my head and pressing a button that I thought I had developed a mild case of insomnia when I wasn't utilising my sleep inducer, which I couldn't bring with me. I sighed, rolled over and closed my eyes. If I remained very still, I would fall asleep eventually.
I waited at the entryway to the course, double-checking the M-10 Lexington pistol and the extra magazines before sliding the weapon back into the holster at my thigh.
This was the qualification course for pistol. It was a realistic scenario in a special building that could be set up to any kind of interior design the instructors wanted through a computer. You couldn't just test on the course to know where all the bad guys and good guys would pop up. Bad guys would randomly pop up, and you were scored on not only the position of shots but speed, with speed being more important on this course.
Hearing a large buzzer, I grabbed my pistol out of my holster and started walking, using my full speed. The first part of the course usually simulated clearing a building. Nobody did that by themselves, the Drill Sergeants said, so it was really just testing quick-reflex shots and judgement.
A humanoid robot with a gun appeared, and my pistol came up, and I squeezed a quick three-round burst into its centre mass. The bullets I was using were real, but they were all frangible rounds, kind of similar to gritty sand once they struck something, so they wouldn't really damage the robots.
I continued along the path, shooting each robot two or three times as they popped up. They had laser guns that would trip a harness I was wearing, causing quite painful but harmless electrical shocks, simulating getting shot. I didn't want that to happen.
A robot came out, holding a non-combatant up as a human shield. I was expected to take these shots, and I only got points deducted for obviously lethal hits on the non-combatant. Instead, though, I used my full speed to carefully line up a headshot of the robot terrorist, putting it down.
Yelling at the robot non-combatant, I aimed my pistol in its general direction. In one of the training runs, I had seen one of the other women in my platoon be taken by a fake non-combatant that had a simulated suicide bomb. The poor woman was wriggling on the ground as the entire harness she was wearing shocked her silly.
I didn't think they would use that trick on an actual qualifying run, but I didn't know for sure. The robot stayed away, and I continued on.
Part of the test that was for judgement was that there was usually an insurmountable obstacle, and you were expected to take cover and call in support, which would arrive briefly to help you deal with it. Calling for help would hurt your score, but the idea was to know when to call for help and do it anyway.
I was, however, trying to show off. So I turned the corner and saw three robots with rifle-style automatic-weapon-looking props; instead of taking cover, I moved with preternatural quickness, zigging and zagging while accurately putting about five rounds into each one before the first one even got the first "shot" off. They were programmed, thankfully, to operate at normal human reaction speeds.
I still had a few rounds in my magazine, but I did a quick combat reload as they had drilled us, shoving the mostly empty mag into my belt as I continued on.
As I stepped over the finish line, there was another klaxon sound, but I wasn't quite done. The next part of the qualification was a simple accuracy test against non-moving targets at ten, fifteen and twenty metres. I was handed fresh magazines and quickly knocked the last part of the test out, including firing a number of times at a kneeling position for the twenty-metre targets.
I was startled by a slap on my shoulder. It was the Drill Sergeant, he had an actual smile on his face, "Excellent work, recruit! That is your Expert badge, for sure, on the pistol. It's not a course record, but it is pretty damn good for a medic. You did a lot better with the pistol than the light assault rifle yesterday. You only got Marksman there, but that's still pretty good."
Yesterday's rifle qualification was just shooting targets at up to three hundred metres on a firing range. The targets would randomly pop up, and you had both a limited amount of time and a limited amount of ammunition. It was weird to see the Drill Sergeant's rare signs of approval, but most of my platoon didn't have any real experience with firearms, to begin with, so I supposed he was just happy I didn't have to retake the test after remedial training like a number of my cohort already had.
The rifle qualification was just an almost superfluous extra event, in any event. They were much more strenuous with this pistol qualification. Honestly, it would be weird if I didn't score well. Not only had I been firing at least a hundred rounds a week on that thing for well over a year, but Alt-Taylor was no slouch, either. The way the first half of the test leaned heavily on reflexes also made it cake for me.
"Yes, Drill Sergeant. I have been firing a Lexington since I was eight, I suppose. Honestly, Drill Sergeant, I have a lot of experience with those Ronin too, but I never did like them. Trigger always felt a bit off," I told him, taking a little risk by being a bit more verbose than I needed to be. Generally, I learned it was better to be as succinct as possible when speaking to them. Also, it had been Alt-Taylor who had experience with rifles; I had none.
He didn't give me any shit or smoke me for that; instead, he just nodded, "Yeah, they're plenty reliable, but a lot of people have the same opinion. That is a pretty common opinion with bullpup rifles, of course. The rifle course is just on the level of a weapons fam, really. That's why we use such old rifles. You're never going to carry a rifle into duty; ya'll medics have too much other shit to hump into action anyway, and the rest are going to be fucking managers and shit. Basically officers."
I decided to take a risk again, "Drill Sergeant, is it true that all Security Specialists have to have a SmartLink as mandatory cyberware?"
"Ehh... yes, and no. It's mandatory for all Security Specialists on Flight Status, and it's optional but highly recommended for all others. The corp will give you one at fifty per cent off if you're a grunt, even set up an interest-free payment plan. Almost every grunt recruit takes that offer up; it really is quite a good deal," he said, and then he glared, "Forget that shit, recruit! Make safe that weapon, turn it in and go back in formation, so another one of you worthless pieces of shit gets a chance to qualify! Double time it, recruit! Move, move, move!"
I moved.
There was no real graduation when we were done like I was expecting from all the war movies I'd seen; we simply got a firm handshake from the Drill Sergeant and were sent on our way. Now that I wasn't in the course anymore, I could access the net again. I probably could have done so while in boot camp, but it was forbidden, and they would have known since we were outside of Seattle and the only cell towers were the ones Trauma Team installed themselves.
I sat in the back of a small van that was ferrying us a few at a time back to Seattle proper while I checked my messages. Blinking at a few, I triggered a phone call to Gloria.
She answered right away, "Hello! Hey, Taylor! Did you get all of my messages? I thought you were dead!"
I grinned at her, "I told you I would be out of contact for a while. I just finished most of my training, but I still won't be back for a week and a half."
"Yeah, but there's out of contact and then dropping into a black hole!" she complained, and she wasn't entirely wrong. This was a very connected society. It was really old-fashioned that nobody was permitted to use any kind of connectivity for eight weeks.
I chuckled, "Did everything work out? I read your messages and was only surprised for a second. I did have something of an established list of clients." Her messages stated that people were asking where I was, people who wanted some medical services.
"Uhh... yeah, I hope you don't mind, but after the third day of them asking, I ended up seeing them myself. I hope you don't mind me using all of your medical equipment or selling them the pharmaceuticals from your giant stash. I found a list with prices, so I had been charging a little bit over that since I wasn't sure if those were the prices you paid or the prices you charged," she told me in a rush.
I should have expected that and prepared her. Gloria was a good enough clinician to help with the everyday maladies of the people that came to see me. She was good enough to help with much more than that, really. However, it was a bit different to treat walk-in patients than it was to treat people who called emergency services or were in accidents and similar.
I chuckled at her, "I don't mind, so long as you don't ruin my reputation. Those are the retail prices, actually. Send me a list of what you sold, and I'll charge you the same wholesale prices I have to pay, and you can keep the difference since it was your work, after all." I paused as I considered that, nodding, "Was there anything serious that showed up?"
Gloria started to complain, saying that she'd pay more until I waved her off, and then she said, "Not really. Mostly just your everyday stuff, colds, simple malfunctioning cyberware, and a few cases of people not taking care of themselves and getting surgical site infections... oh... Yeah, there was one Tyger Claw in a cowboy hat that accidentally stabbed himself with his own sword. It wasn't too serious, but it was the most serious of the bunch. I averaged maybe three or four patients every day I wasn't working. Honestly, I'm making almost as much money as my salary! I thought a cop was arresting me when he showed up, but he just wanted some boner pills. I was wondering why you bought so many of those in bulk, I mean, I wasn't about to criticise, but with the high blood pressure meds, the cholesterol meds, and the boner pills, I thought you had some old man output and was a little concerned. You're a bit too young for much of an age gap in your dates, you know!"
Ugh. Thanks for that mental image, Gloria. I had just bought the top twenty or so most highly prescribed prescription medicines from a wholesaler. At least those that didn't require a special permit to purchase, like narcotics. I told her, "That's a gross mental image, thanks. I'm pretty sure I know exactly which Tyger Claw you're talking about, too."
Shortly after buying the gun and gun belt that I sold him, Johnny had gotten a cowboy hat from somewhere and had taken to tipping it at every pretty girl he saw. He was kind of a moron, but he actually was pretty good when it came to weapon safety, so I wondered what happened. He probably tried to show off or something.
"Haha, sorry! When you come back, I want to talk to you. How did you get set up doing this? You have like a hundred thousand eddies worth of medical equipment here, but most of it is specialised for cybernetics implantation. The stuff I was using was just your standard equipment like we used in the truck. I was wondering if I could start a similar side business in my Megablock," she told me, making me raise an eyebrow. I had just sort of fallen into it, so I hadn't really thought about it, but it was a nice little extra income for me.
I didn't average as much as she had made while I was gone, but I often was gone from my apartment on my days off, too, so I had less time where I could see patients.
I nodded at her, "Sure. I never intended to be doing it, really, but I wasn't born a Corpo for nothing. I can certainly help you sketch out a business plan. One of the biggest issues is..." I paused and glanced at the other people in the van and coughed, "Well, I'll tell you when I get back to Night City."
The single biggest question mark for Gloria was the gang situation in her building. The Tyger Claws shielded me from a lot of the stuff involved in running a technically illegal venture, like the city or cops trying to shut me down. In exchange, I gave them ten per cent of my income, gross, not net. Like a sales tax, almost. In fact, that was how I had set it up in the simple accounting software I had downloaded. On the plus side, since it was all illegal income, I didn't pay regular sales tax, so it evened out.
The next biggest issue was real estate. The Tyger Claws were really giving me a deal on the location I was renting. I'd have to help her examine the commercial or dual-use areas in her building.
I thought about that. Trauma Team's philosophy on side work was laid out pretty simply in the first week of indoc, namely, don't do anything with company property, company logos, and, more importantly, the company reputation. That was it. It was kind of impossible to totally ban such income streams unless you were a manager or higher up than she was.
I didn't think it would be a big deal to continue doing it, but if I heard differently, I could always offer Gloria to run my business, but she'd have to move to my Megabuilding, so it might be problematic. She was pretty set on continuing to live in Santo Domingo.
We talked a little more and then hung up. I caught up a little on the propaganda in Night City on the drive back into town. They had mostly stopped talking about The Great Bird Debacle of '63, as it was being called, but Lucius Rhyne had definitely scored a point or two from what everyone on the network news was saying.
One odd message that I almost didn't notice since it came from a net address I didn't have in my contacts list was an invitation to see one Wakako Okada for tea after returning from Seattle and getting settled in at my new job. That was both interesting and a little unsettling. I wasn't entirely sure if Wakako was one of the leaders of the Tyger Claws or if she was just a Fixer associated with them, but I had learned that Mr Jin's boss, Mr Inoue, was actually one of her sons.
And her son, who was a fairly high-ranked Tyger Claw, referred to her as "Okada-sama" rather than as mom. She seemed to have some intelligence on me, as well. I had just told Jin I would be out of town for a few months, not specifically why, although it wasn't hard to find out.
Well, I doubted she intended me out and out violence; I would have preferred to be beneath her notice, though.
The van pulled into a transient housing facility operated by the Corp, and we all got out and checked in. It was similar to a hotel, but only Trauma Team employees could use it. The rooms were quite small, but all I wanted to do was to take a shower and crawl into the cold, clean sheets of the bed for several days. I didn't have anything to do for about half a week, and after that, I just had a brief three-day course acclimating me to life as a flight team member.
When I got to Night City, I'd still have to work under third rider status again, just like when I got hired at NC Med Ambulance, although I expected Trauma Team's third rider to last a little longer.
I rolled my luggage upstairs, got into my room and locked the door. Thank god I could use my sleep-inducer again. Normally I just sat in a comfortable chair while using it, but I built a little strap that would keep it on my head no matter what, and honestly, who couldn't resist snuggling into brand-new cold sheets when they stayed in a hotel?
I was surprised I had missed my own apartment so much, but I was really glad to see it back, but my schedule was a bit weird. I barely had twelve hours off after getting off the airliner before needing to show up for my first shift, which I was driving to now. Apparently, they only had limited people that they would allow precepting for new clinicians.
It looked like I would be a part of the same crew that I had seen the other day. I wondered if Mr Bandbox was back on duty yet. I had checked his social media and was horrified to discover that they had done an entire special BD about his brush with death. You could even download an edited BD of him being flatlined and then another of him waking up in the sterile white hospital. They also had a several-day gap between the releases, so everyone assumed he was dead! There were locally trending hashtags, #RIPSexyTT. Wasn't that too much?
Plus, he was discussing me, and commenters wanted to know who I was, but thankfully they hadn't really learned much, except that I was a female due to my voice attempting to warn him. All Mr Bandbox was saying was he was extremely grateful for a colleague that managed to save him and get him to the Trauma Team trauma centre in Watson, where his heart was replaced.
This time I parked in the employee parking garage. There weren't assigned parking spots, but there were assigned areas. As a new clinician, I didn't rate a very good area, so it took me a couple of minutes to walk to the security checkpoint. The employee-only security checkpoint wasn't as high-security as the one in the front of the building because I already had my identity checked once driving into the garage. Still, there were a couple of security guys behind a desk watching the entrance that I needed to badge into
They didn't remark at my pistol, knife or monowire this time; they merely told me to have a nice day and "be safe out there." Of course, there were areas in the tower where I would not be allowed to carry a weapon, for example, a lot of the executive floors on the top ten floors and a few research areas in the basement and first few floors. I had no reason or access to go to any of those locations in the first place, though, so it didn't really matter too much.
I badged into the base for the second time and glanced around. I was early again, but not by very much. However, this time I knew which rooms were which, and I went to drop my things in the spare bedroom. I brought some tools with me because I intended to work on the braindance wreath inside whatever helmet they assigned me today during our off hours.
I had spent almost eight hours just Tinkering and building things when I got back to my apartment; the urge to do so was becoming stronger and stronger the longer I spent in Seattle. I had managed to calm it somewhat by reading a lot of interesting medical journals in the Trauma Team Tower and drawing diagrams in the notebook I took with me, but that was like being thirsty and only being allowed a couple of ice chips. It didn't really satisfy me.
I did come back with very detailed drawings of semi-autonomous surgical assistant spider robots about the size of a chihuahua which incorporated both electronic and biological components, for example, human neural tissue instead of a CPU. I didn't understand electronics enough to actually use any kind of electronic solution for a robot, but I understood the biology of a human brain very well and could repurpose or just grow parts of it that would work as well as or better than any robot currently on the market.
However, the drawings put me ill at ease for some reason. Beyond the fact that I didn't have anything to clone human tissue with, I would have to use "donor tissue" from people who would definitely prefer to keep it. Beyond that, it just looked kind of creepy, even if everything my medical instincts told me that it would be very efficient.
Of the things I actually built, I finished a clip-on in-line firewall module that should work with most BD systems, and I had a number of new tools, including a bunch of chemistry glassware that I had made somehow in a daze out of beer bottles that Gloria had left in the trash. I wish I had set a camera to watch myself as I did it because I was very curious due to my lack of an actual glassblowing, heating or smelting apparatus in my apartment.
It seemed like my power wanted me to have and play around with chemicals some more. That was... pretty good. My possible plans for selling one of the chemicals I knew how to make, probably the synthetic antibiotic, did require me to synthesise it a number of times on tape or BD to include that with the payoff along with directions. But that was for the future.
I barely had enough time to get a couple of hours of sleep on the inducer, get something to eat and take a shower before I needed to show up here. It would have been so very awkward if I had missed my first day at work because I had been in a fugue for hours. I'm not sure if they would fire me, but I think I would have been in pretty deep trouble.
By the time I came out of the bedroom, a number of people were in the living room, including most of the crew I would be working with and Mr Bandbox! He was working today! I suppose it had been almost three months since he was injured, so it wasn't too surprising that modern medicine had him up and at them much sooner than that.
He noticed me and grinned widely, waving the giant hand cannon revolver that almost killed him! "Hey! It's Heartbreaker!"
Uhh...
That can't be my cape name. I mean, my Trauma Team name. I was aware of how this nickname thing usually went; the more you objected to it, the more it stuck, but still, "Shouldn't that be... Heart-maker?" I asked, hopefully.
Anno smiled and nodded, but Mr Mercy and Mr Bandbox shook their heads, the latter saying, "No way, no way! The name has to be ironic, somehow. This one has the double entendre that it might be because you are the date em and leave em type, which seems like the opposite to your personality! It's great!"
I shook my head, "Dr Anno's name isn't ironic. I figured out it was because he saved a kid's life by doing internal cardiac massage for the entire trip to the hospital. The kid was only like eight or nine! That really is a Savior!"
Dr Anno groaned and shook his head rapidly, but Mr Mercy chuckled and said, "You didn't hear the whole story. It's true he saved that kid's life, he even saw the kid off when they left the hospital with their dad. Was waving as the kid drove away..."
Mr Bandbox interrupted by smacking his fist into his open palm, "And watched their car get totally smashed by an out-of-control automated semi-truck! Grease spot! Both were DOA instantly!"
Both Dr Anno and I groaned, and I said, "That's really cruel to make that his name, then!" That caused the doctor to nod rapidly at me. That also made me even warier of those automated trucks that I saw on the streets sometimes.
The man I called Mr Teddy Bear shook his head, "I know! And he's my boss, so don't think you're getting out of your name, either!"
Being given a nickname after the most despicable human Master in Earth Bet was a little troubling. I had been here for a year and a half now, but I still had a visceral disgust reaction just hearing it. Dr Anno turned to me and said, "Don't worry, Taylor! I'm on your side!"
After some more ribbing, Mr Bandbox came over and privately thanked me profusely for saving his life, which caused me to turn beet red. I'd been thanked a number of times since I got into this world, but honestly, I don't think I've been appreciated on that level since my mom was alive. I always got the impression that I was the most important thing to her. I used to think that about my dad, too.
I waved him off, stammering something out, before being saved by Dr Anno and Mr Mercy, needing me to go through a number of things on my first day. I had to check out an MCU, a helmet, and a weapon not to mention I had to do a number of additional training items on the AV-4, as well. We were out of service for about an hour and a half while I accomplished all of that.
I already had my armour and helmet on, as I was adjusting several things on it when we got an unusual Platinum call. For us to get a Platinum call when we weren't even on the way to go ready-five status meant that we had to have like three Platinum calls more or less simultaneously, which wasn't a good sign. Everyone rapidly got into their suits, and we rushed out to the aircraft and jumped in.
I was sitting in the normal paramedic spot while Mr Teddy was in the jumpseat, and he would be pretending he wasn't here unless I fucked something up.
I tried to pull up the patient information but must have screwed something up. As the engines spooled up and the pilot shoved us off our perch, I clicked onto the clinician net, "Uhh... I must have got a bad download; it's showing our client is NC88271212C1 Muffins the dog?"
Dr Anno's wry voice came back, "No... that's correct. This is a coordinated call. The first Platinum call was unrelated, but ours and Delta's are related, so we're coordinating. Here, let me show you how to patch into the raid-net."
Raid-net?! Did they use MMO terms? I don't know why, but I found that very amusing.
I mentally selected the correct options and could suddenly hear Delta's clinicians, "Okay, we are approaching the LZ; our client is NC88918217 Martha Williams; she is apparently the dog walker for Bravo's client, which is NC8827121C1 Muffins, a canine. They're airborne now and en route. Our girl has two GSWs to the lower left quadrant; assailants shot her and kidnapped Muffins."
I didn't know which was more unbelievable. That our Platinum client was a dog, or that their Platinum client was the dog's caretaker. Just how much money did these people have if one of the perks of being a dog walker was Trauma Team Platinum coverage? It wasn't cheap, not at all.
I shifted back to our net, "I'm... not a vet." I told Dr Anno, although I was actually pretty sure I could work on dogs with no problem. He chuckled, "Yeah, none of us are. We have a special amendment to the PCGs that I call the DCGs." PCGs were Patient Care Guidelines. It was a huge manual on how to treat any number of illnesses or injuries the Trauma Team way. I had already read the whole thing cover to cover about six times.
"Dog Care Guidelines? Are you serious?" I asked him. I didn't remember seeing any Dog Care Guidelines in there!
He shrugged, "Well, I mean, some are cats, too. The weirdest one was a pet dove once. Don't worry about it. There are a few medicines we can't use, and the rest we just size them down for their weight, like if they were a neonate."
I sighed. Would I ever be rich enough to buy Mr Pegpig his own Trauma Team membership? I somehow doubted it; pigeons only lived about ten years. But... who was to say how long a pigeon could live if it was treated by yours truly?
No! I had to ignore the part of my brain that was tempting me to go catatonic and build a pigeon-longevity chamber right in the AV. Now wasn't the time!
Mr Mercy came on the net and said, "We're going to treat this as a hot LZ; targets and client are in an empty warehouse; they drove inside. We'll land outside. Since this is sort of a hostage situation, anyone without SmartLinks holds back unless you're absolutely sure you won't miss."
I checked my weapon just in case, as was the protocol, shaking my head.
As soon as the AV touched down, we all jumped out with our weapons out. We, as a team, entered the first room, but then Mr Mercy held a hand up, "Scanning, scanning. Hostiles identified. Four targets selected." I glanced around but then, as soon as the outline of the four dognappers was rendered in front of my vision I realised that Mercy was using some method to scan through the thin walls of this office area into the main room of the warehouse.
"We'll take our shots from here, Bandbox, Teddy and I. Rest, hold fast," he said, and both security guys and Mr Teddy Bear raised their weapons. I suppose Teddy had a SmartLink. Interesting.
Were we really just going to shoot four guys in the head for dognapping? Well, I guess they shot that lady, too, but...
A moment later, a number of quick shots from the three and all four icons disappeared. Yes, we were going to shoot these guys for dognapping, "Tangos down, move, move, move."
We rushed into the warehouse, still on the bounce in case there were additional threats Mr Mercy wasn't able to scan, but we didn't find anyone. I holstered my pistol and glanced down at a small chihuahua who was growling and worrying at the shoe of a dead dognapper.
Well, mission accomplished, I guess.
), is there a timeline on our fix ? 😅🙈
