Free Neptune's Tears by Susan Waggoner Page B

me you took that
divining stuff seriously. That seems to be Dr Branning’s favourite theme. But he got the wrong end of the stick. What happened was a one off, a fluke.’
    Rani perked up a little. ‘Really?’
    ‘Of
course
. Dr Branning is just so anxious for the Royal London to have its very own diviner.’ Zee shook her head. ‘That isn’t me. I’m not anyone’s
dewdrop.’
    ‘Raindrop,’ Rani corrected.
    ‘Whatever. Raindrop, dewdrop, lemondrop. Not me.’
    ‘Gumdrop?’ Rani giggled.
    ‘That either.’ Zee smiled back at her.
    By nine a.m. Mr Caldwell was Zee’s patient again, and a few days later she had him sitting up and surfing the web.
    Zee was working on an idea for Mr Caldwell that might help lots of other patients as well, and she was eager to get started. It was Mr Caldwell’s speech centre that had been affected. The
re-grown and patched-in slice of brain, though fully functional, was as blank as a baby’s and would have to be re-mapped. An avid gardener and rose-grower, Mr Caldwell loved looking at garden
sites and pictures of roses. When he came to a picture of a favourite bloom, he bookmarked the page.
    ‘That’s good,’ Zee said, glancing over Mr Caldwell’s shoulder and noting his growing ease with the process.
    She matched the bookmarked images and with words, hoping they might form a healing bridge, and Mr Caldwell would see not only see the blossoms but the words for them whenever they worked
together.
    She pulled an image from a file she’d already done, a large pink and cream blossom with abundant petals with
Rose
printed beneath it. But when she showed it to Mr Caldwell, he
frowned and became agitated, shaking his head.
No, no, no.
He held up one forefinger, then held up the other one beside it. When Zee failed to understand, he repeated the gesture. Finally,
glancing from Mr Caldwell to the picture, she understood.
    ‘
Double rose
. Is that it?’
    Mr Caldwell nodded vigorously. Maybe he couldn’t yet recognise the words, but he recognised a rose, and remembered that a double flower needed a double word.
    ‘Very good, Mr C. I’m impressed! ROSE.’ She enunciated the word carefully, pointing to the word. ‘DOUBLE ROSE.’
    ‘Roadj. Dhubba roadj,’ Mr Caldwell repeated, smiling. It was a good start.
    At first, the multiple bombs seemed to be a major victory for the anarchists. Stock markets fell, people got into arguments and accidents, governments came up with protocols no
one could follow. Then something changed. So many people in so many cities had been affected that their thoughts turned and focused on the anarchists like a swarm of angry bees. Ideas, as Dr
Branning might say, were out there. And not all of the ideas were bad. After years of feeling like sitting ducks, people began to see ways of fighting back. A flautist in Vienna suggested lining
public places with exquisitely sensitive tuning forks that would sound an alert if touched by the shock waves.
    One of the most successful ideas was the Shock Sock, a microfibre tube that folded into a package smaller than a deck of cards. In case of attack, the user slid the corsetlike tube over his
torso so the tube encased the entire trunk of the body. Pulling a ring caused the tube to contract. If the person hadn’t been injured, no harm was done, but if they had been hurt, the
compression slowed internal bleeding and kept organs functioning for up to forty-eight hours. Factories swung into high production and within weeks governments were distributing them to citizens.
Zee’s was blue and identified her as a Priority One Responder. David’s was grey with a red
AG
for Alien Guest. Zee didn’t like to think about the markings because she knew
they meant that in an attack she would be evaluated and treated first, while David would be left to the very end.
    At the end of September, the Royal London was asked to contribute to a three-day seminar on shock bomb triage held in Paris. Emergency services, surgery,