He watched the medics work, his thoughts going back. It'd started … what, twelve years ago? Yes, that sounded about right. A small town here in New Pennsylvania—and not too far away, if he remembered clearly. He'd been on light duty, wounded in his first fight with the Brotherhood and counting himself lucky to be alive. It had left him with a scar across his right cheek, cutting into his mouth and chin, but it had left five others dead, three disabled.
The scar had upset the young men he was interviewing; most had stared for a few seconds, then looked away. Well, they hadn't been very promising anyway. Recruiting trips to out-of-the-way small towns like that Boalsburg were mostly for show rather than out of any real expectation of finding good Enforcement candidates.
The last applicant's folder had brought a smile. Joan Cortin … Not many women applied for Enforcement, and even fewer qualified. He remembered thinking it probably hadn't been a serious application; more than likely, she just wanted to meet the "romantic" Enforcement officer. Odeon hadn't minded; he'd been rather flattered, if anything. He'd opened the folder and scanned it, intending to make it look good before he turned her down.
There'd been only one catch. Grades, psychoprofile, and physical stats said she did qualify—and at well above officer-cadet minimums. He'd wondered if she knew.
She hadn't. Her application had been the ruse he'd guessed; she admitted that immediately, without either staring at or avoiding his scar. She thought it added to his appeal, which hadn't hurt his feelings at all. It'd been rather enjoyable convincing her that she really was Enforcement-officer material, and he'd taken real pleasure in waiting until she was leaving—and her former schoolmates could hear—to tell her when she'd be picked up by an Enforcement trooper who'd drive her to the Royal Academy.
He'd been there for her graduation, too, proud that one of his recruits had been at the top of the class, commissioned First Lieutenant for that achievement. He'd given her her first salute, then staggered as sixty kilos of enthusiastic female officer jumped him for a congratulatory kiss.
Remembering that kiss—and the night that followed, the others later—Mike Odeon rubbed the scar crossing his lips. It hurt to see medics working over her, hear them sounding pessimistic. Her injuries seemed to be even more severe than Boris had said at first, and she'd been weak to begin with, just recuperating from one of the unnamed plagues that had devastated the Kingdom Systems during the Final War. The plagues were no longer common, hadn't been for over a century; Joanie had simply had the bad luck to pursue a gang of horse thieves into a still-contaminated area.
The medics were putting her onto a litter, careful to support her back. As they picked up the litter, her eyes flickered open and she looked in Odeon's direction. "Mike?"
A gesture stopped the medics. "What is it, Joanie?"
"Don't let 'em kick me out … while I can't fight back. I've gotta … get the bastards who did this … Mike, promise …"