Free Hearts Akilter by Catherine E. McLean

his hands raised to show he was unarmed. He faced Woodridge who held a snubbed-nosed rodgun aimed at Deacon’s chest. The tiny light on the top of the barrel indicated the gun was set to kill.
    Woodridge, her face livid with rage, momentarily pointed the index finger of her other hand at the treatment table.
    On the table lay a dark-haired man tethered down by wrist straps so as not to disturb the many tubes attached to his arms, legs, and chest. Above the rim of his oxygen mask, terror made his eyes appear three times their size. His gaze held, transfixed, on Woodridge and Deacon.
    On the floor, beside the treatment table’s pedestal, was a black cylinder—the little welder she’d put in the gamepad for Deacon.
    “Enough!” Woodridge yelled above the machinery’s noise. “Henry, protocol override six, six, nine, six. Execute, one, two, three!”
    Henry’s treads engaged. He headed toward Deacon. The light on the hyposprayer frame changed from yellow to green, ready to inject.
    Marlee’s mind shifted into hyper-awareness, seconds seemingly halved.
    Henry was about to tranquilize Deacon.
    No, wait. Woodridge couldn’t afford a witness. The dose was likely a killing one. Deacon would be dead.
    No, no, no! She liked the man. Really liked him.
    The shock of that thought shook her to the core.
    She couldn’t let Deacon die.
    Her mind raced at light speed.
    She rose to her feet, grabbed the hilt of the wand welder, and turned it on. With adrenaline-fueled muscles, she pulled the welder free of her coveralls, raced into the room, and extended the tool in front of her like a sword.
    Flicking her ocular implants, she magnified her target, and aimed the welder’s glowing tip.
    As she sprinted between Henry and Deacon, she elbowed Deacon, shoving him aside with all her might.
    He slammed shoulder first against the fiberboard wall.
    As time passed in slow motion, Marlee focused on the flash of the energy pellet exiting the rodgun and met the pellet with the welder’s tip.
    A flare of brilliant white energy blinded her.
    She felt the impact and sting of Henry’s hyposprayer on her thigh, stumbled, and fell forward.
    Darkness and silence enveloped her.
    ****
    Deacon stood at the vending kiosk, hands in the pockets of the hospital-issue robe covering his pajamas, trying to decide between getting a soda or a cup of coffee. About to make his choice, he heard Henry approach and glanced over his shoulder at the robot.
    Henry stopped and said, “Monitors confirm Marlee is coming around.”
    Joy entwined with relief. “It’s about time.”
    “Affirmative. Yes. Deacon, please remember to calm her so she does not panic.”
    “Does she usually panic when she comes to?”
    “Negative. No. She usually panics because she recalls other accidents and is concerned she may have hurt herself irrevocably. Do not delay if you wish to be with her when she opens her eyes.”
    “How’s JJ—I mean Lieutenant Commander Woodridge?”
    “Coping. I must check the cooling unit on her jaw and see if she needs additional pain killers for the burns.” He swerved and headed away.
    Deacon said to Henry’s back, “Don’t you want to see Marlee?”
    “I will later. Duty first.”
    Right. Duty first. His first duty was thanking Marlee-the-heroine. His practical, no holds barred, gutsy little heroine had saved his life. She’d also stopped JJ from becoming a murderer. It amazed him, delighted him, and, yes, even frightened him that, in so short a time, he had such strong feelings and cared so deeply for Marlee.
    Once at Marlee’s bedside, he gazed down at her closed eyelids, and at the lump on the right side of her forehead, now the size of a goose’s egg. The swelling extended down, over the brow, to the top of her eyelid.
    Memories vividly came into focus. He’d felt her shove him aside, and watched her aim her welding rod. Then he squeezed his eyes closed against the inevitable blast. When he’d opened his eyes and found Marlee inert on the