Free A Method Truly Sublime (The Commander) by Randall Farmer Page A

be able to fix your shoulder.”
    I bet Zielinski would be able to.
    I had also forgotten about the immobilization part.  I wasn’t sure I would be able to fake my cooperation to the level of allowing myself to be tied down.  Well, shackled down, with thick steel, to be more precise.
    I thought for a moment and came up with an inspiration.  “How about if I told you how to ge t around that problem?”
    “I’d like to hear about your idea,” Dr. Wilson said.  McIntyre did as well, coming over to peer over Dr. Wilson’s shoulder.
    “In a few days I’m supposed to be getting juice,” I said.  I didn’t want to explain this, but anyone who read my St. Louis records would know already, so I didn’t give away any secrets with this information nugget.  “After I get juice I’m helpless for an hour or two afterwards.”  Unless some damned Chimera raped me.  “Would it be possible for you to do the surgery while I’m indisposed?”
    Dr. Wilson turned to Special Agent McIntyre.  “Is this so?”  Wilson not only didn’t know anything about Arms, he hadn’t read up on us, either.  He should.  For grins Keaton had procured the official report on me from St. Louis; she had used it to puncture my ego, but I had found the report hilarious.  In a grim sort of way.
    McIntyre smiled.  “Totally helpless, and when she comes to, she’s so horny she would even screw you, Wilson.”
    Wilson shivered and backed off; I don’t think he did sex of any variety, including self-administered hand jobs.  “Well, if you’re willing to vouch for my safety, I’ll do the surgery.  Understand, Mrs. Hancock, this will be painful and will involve rebreaking bones and removal of muscles.  You won’t be able to use your shoulder for days afterwards.”
    “Uh huh.  Just make sure they get pinned into the proper orientation and my body will do the rest.”
    Or so I fervently hoped.  The number of ways this might go wrong, in a place so choked with bad juice, boggled my mind.  On the other hand, not getting my shoulder fixed would lead to my death, especially if I stayed confined in this hellhole.
    No angst this time, no hesitation.  Choosing between bad options had become a specialty of mine.
     
    Gilgamesh: March 10, 1968 – March 11, 1968
    “She hasn’t left,” Gilgamesh said.  This was his first phone call to Shadow from California, from a phone booth among a rank of several outside the Transbay Terminal in San Francisco.  An AC Transit bus rumbled by as he spoke, spewing black exhaust.  A Greyhound followed immediately behind.  A lot had been going on since the last call.  He had sent his letter, exchanged phone calls with Sinclair, and sent another two letters out, pleading with Occum and Ezekiel for phone numbers so they could be in closer communication during the crisis.  He didn’t expect he would get either phone number.
    “Who hasn’t left?” Shadow said, and paused.  “Good news, Gilgamesh.  I got word from Sinclair.  Hancock is in the CDC’s Virginia Research Complex, in the ir Transform Detention Center.  I also managed to get Sky’s Toronto phone number for you.”
    “Thanks.”  Gilgamesh didn’t say he already had contacted Sinclair on his own.  Sinclair had been driving near the eastern locations on Shadow’s list since Gilgamesh last called Shadow.  Sinclair had found Tiamat three days ago.  Perhaps it was a little rude of him to test Shadow this way, but even though Gilgamesh acknowledged Shadow’s leadership as a Guru, it still would have been foolish to trust him blindly.  Treating Shadow so poorly should bother his conscience, but Gilgamesh was tired of being meek and mild, and tired of continually letting others talk him into holding back.  Officially, Crows had no leaders.  Shadow was a Guru, though, and the Gurus, the teachers of Crows, earned their titles by attracting Crows to them.  According to the common wisdom on the matter.  Gilgamesh suspected more to the