hard way, to judge from the look of him.
Grant sat down, looked at the ceiling. “How did you get to be at the bottom of a well?” he asked suddenly.
“What?”
“You were found at the bottom of a well, blocking the flow of water. How did you get to be there?”
J.B. leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes. He could remember being in the water, swept along by a tidal-strength wave that threw him against rocks, battered him and tried to drive the air from his lungs. He remembered those lungs burning like fire as he kept what little air he had down; darkness and the occasional surfacing to gasp in more before being dragged under once again; the darkness before, when he had the weight of rock on him, holding him down; before that the animals, teeth, fang and claw; and always that it was dark.
He spoke these impressions as they came to him and Grant listened. He was more than just a medic. Because of his early years in sec, he also conducted interrogations of enemy or dissident forces. There was nothing he hadn’t seen over the past twenty to thirty years and he had a nose for when he was being told truth.
He knew that J.B. was telling him the truth, as far as it went. The man could remember very little. Certainly, that tallied with the injuries to his skull. If anything, it was incredible that it hadn’t been fractured from the blows it had taken.
But this truth wasn’t enough.
“Very well,” he said finally, in the same flat tone as before. “I’ll tell you what I think, shall I?”
“Does it matter?” J.B. queried.
“It does, because it determines whether you live a little longer or whether we dispose of you now,” Grant stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” he repeated. “You were found at the bottom of a well, as I said. This was following a quake in the area, where we expected some damage to be done. What we didn’t expect was you. I think that you were in a cave system and that during the quake you were thrown into the deep river that we tap with the well and forced through the river’s channels until you arrived up here.”
“I had kinda figured that myself,” J.B. muttered.
“Quite, but we didn’t know this, did we? And now we do. And I also believe you when you say that you can’t remember—at least, not right now—what you were doing underground in the first place. You don’t look like one of the scum, that’s for sure.”
J.B. shot him a questioning, puzzled glance.
Grant shrugged. “We have a little problem with a mutie community around these parts. Mostly they keep to themselves, but they do like to do a little scavenging.”
“Which is why you thought I might be a mutie, right?”
“Exactly. We also considered how much of a threat you may be, seeing as you were carrying enough grens and plas ex to blow up half the ville, ammo for several blasters, and—”
“Mini-Uzi, Smith & Wesson M-4000 and a Tekna hunting knife,” J.B. finished for him. The words were reassuring; they reminded him of a part of himself that was buried under the memory loss and something came back. He felt an assurance that he was comfortable with these things.
“Interesting,” Grant murmured. “And do you remember what you were doing with all that ordnance?”
J.B. didn’t answer immediately. He considered that. There was something that was struggling to get out from under the blanket that covered his past, but it just couldn’t force its way through.
“It’s what I do,” he said simply. That was all that was clear to him.
“I see.” Grant rose to his feet and went to the door. He tapped, waited for it to be opened. Beyond him, J.B. could see a heavyset man in fatigues, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. “We’ll want to talk to you some more, but rest for a while,” Grant said.
“Who’s ‘we’? You keep saying ‘we,’ but there’s only one of you.”
“I’m not acting alone,” Grant replied. “All these questions are on behalf of
Grant sat down, looked at the ceiling. “How did you get to be at the bottom of a well?” he asked suddenly.
“What?”
“You were found at the bottom of a well, blocking the flow of water. How did you get to be there?”
J.B. leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes. He could remember being in the water, swept along by a tidal-strength wave that threw him against rocks, battered him and tried to drive the air from his lungs. He remembered those lungs burning like fire as he kept what little air he had down; darkness and the occasional surfacing to gasp in more before being dragged under once again; the darkness before, when he had the weight of rock on him, holding him down; before that the animals, teeth, fang and claw; and always that it was dark.
He spoke these impressions as they came to him and Grant listened. He was more than just a medic. Because of his early years in sec, he also conducted interrogations of enemy or dissident forces. There was nothing he hadn’t seen over the past twenty to thirty years and he had a nose for when he was being told truth.
He knew that J.B. was telling him the truth, as far as it went. The man could remember very little. Certainly, that tallied with the injuries to his skull. If anything, it was incredible that it hadn’t been fractured from the blows it had taken.
But this truth wasn’t enough.
“Very well,” he said finally, in the same flat tone as before. “I’ll tell you what I think, shall I?”
“Does it matter?” J.B. queried.
“It does, because it determines whether you live a little longer or whether we dispose of you now,” Grant stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” he repeated. “You were found at the bottom of a well, as I said. This was following a quake in the area, where we expected some damage to be done. What we didn’t expect was you. I think that you were in a cave system and that during the quake you were thrown into the deep river that we tap with the well and forced through the river’s channels until you arrived up here.”
“I had kinda figured that myself,” J.B. muttered.
“Quite, but we didn’t know this, did we? And now we do. And I also believe you when you say that you can’t remember—at least, not right now—what you were doing underground in the first place. You don’t look like one of the scum, that’s for sure.”
J.B. shot him a questioning, puzzled glance.
Grant shrugged. “We have a little problem with a mutie community around these parts. Mostly they keep to themselves, but they do like to do a little scavenging.”
“Which is why you thought I might be a mutie, right?”
“Exactly. We also considered how much of a threat you may be, seeing as you were carrying enough grens and plas ex to blow up half the ville, ammo for several blasters, and—”
“Mini-Uzi, Smith & Wesson M-4000 and a Tekna hunting knife,” J.B. finished for him. The words were reassuring; they reminded him of a part of himself that was buried under the memory loss and something came back. He felt an assurance that he was comfortable with these things.
“Interesting,” Grant murmured. “And do you remember what you were doing with all that ordnance?”
J.B. didn’t answer immediately. He considered that. There was something that was struggling to get out from under the blanket that covered his past, but it just couldn’t force its way through.
“It’s what I do,” he said simply. That was all that was clear to him.
“I see.” Grant rose to his feet and went to the door. He tapped, waited for it to be opened. Beyond him, J.B. could see a heavyset man in fatigues, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. “We’ll want to talk to you some more, but rest for a while,” Grant said.
“Who’s ‘we’? You keep saying ‘we,’ but there’s only one of you.”
“I’m not acting alone,” Grant replied. “All these questions are on behalf of
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