Free In Every Clime and Place by Patrick LeClerc Page A

noticed.
    “Actually, sir, I was wondering about PFC O’Rourke.”
    “O’Rourke?”
    “Marine with a bullet wound to the arm, sir.”
    “Oh yes.” Recognition lit his features. “The lacerated biceps and arterial bleed. He’s doing well. We repaired the damage to the muscle and blood vessels. We took a cell culture and we’ll regrow him some muscle to replace the scar tissue. After he heals up, we’ll see how much movement he’s lost and how much scarring there is. If we need to, we can replace the damage with new muscle tissue. He’s lucky the humerus wasn’t hit. If the bone had taken that round, it would have shattered into bits.”
    “So he’s doing OK, sir?”
    “He’s stable. His prognosis is encouraging.”
    “Could I see him? I’m his team leader.”
    The doc shook his head. “He’s still heavily sedated. Check back after nineteen hundred.”
    “Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
    We had to be a lot more formal with the Navy than our own officers.
    “Have somebody clean that knee before you leave, Corporal,” he said, looking at another patient. He wasn’t a very friendly individual, but he cared about his patients, even if he only knew me as “minor abrasion to the epidermis of the knee.”
    Doc Roy caught my eye. “Hey, Mick.”
    “Hey yourself,” I replied. “Thanks for taking care of Terry back there.”
    “Any time,” she said, smiling. “Thanks for taking charge back at the airlock.”
    “Just got impatient,” I replied. “The Old Man would’ve said the same pretty quick.”
    “If you say so.” She smirked. “I’m just glad you did it when you did.”
    “Thanks. Oh, the doctor wants somebody to slap a band-aid on this knee. Do you mind?”
    “Let’s take a look.” She pulled a curtain to close off the section of sickbay. “OK, Mick. Drop ’em.”
    “It’s my knee,” I said. “I can roll up the leg of—”
    “Who’s the corpsman here?” she asked. “I’m a trained medical professional. There’s nothing down there I haven’t seen before.”
    I shrugged and unbuckled. “I heard that about you.”
    “Ha!” She swabbed my knee with a gauze pad soaked in stinging antiseptic. I winced and drew in a sharp breath. “Toughen up, Marine. It’s just a little iodine.”
    “Stings like hell.”
    “That just means it’s working.” She finished scrubbing at my wound. “You don’t know what kind of bacteria might be on that rock. I don’t want to leave anything behind. There.” She peeled off a square of Nuskin and gently smoothed it over the knee. It was some kind of synthetic skin that would adhere for a few days until my own new tissue replaced it.
    “You done torturing me?” I asked.
    “Almost.” She planted a kiss on my thigh, just above the bandage. “There. All better?”
    I swallowed hard. “I think I’ll live.”
    “Wow,” she commented. “You Marines stand at attention at the drop of a hat.” She stood, grasping the curtain with her left hand, the one with the ring winking on the third finger. “Better secure that thing. Don’t want to scare any of our other patients.”
    I pulled up my trousers, adjusting myself with difficulty. “You’re an evil bitch, you know that?”
    “See you around, Mick.” She sauntered away.
    I gave myself a moment to stop hyperventilating, then hiked back to the rest of my team, reassured that O’Rourke would be alright.
    As I entered the room, I found Johnson cleaning his TAR. The light machine gun was spread out over a poncho and he was sliding a cleaning rod and swab through the barrel. He looked up when I came in. “Sabatini’s taking her sweet time in the shower.”
    “Shit, Johnson, if you promise to look that good, I’ll let you have privacy privileges too.”
    “How’s O’Rourke?”
    “Doin’ good,” I replied. “They got him sewn up. They’re growing some new muscle for him.”
    “He looked pretty bad.”
    I shrugged. I had seen a lot worse. “That wound was ragged, and bled like