“It’s only a concussion ...” the doctor muttered as he squinted at the display screen on his lap. A moment later he seemed to remember that he wasn’t alone and turned to Toni.
“And just what in hell is wrong with you, cadet?” he asked, peering curiously at the cadet.
“Nothing, sir. I just brought him in here,” he replied in surprise.
The doctor was a civilian, one of the many who worked in MEWAC, but Toni still felt obliged to sir him. He was a man in his late forties, with a deeply lined face that made him look somewhat older, and he had sad eyes. He probably wouldn’t be around much longer, at least not in MEWAC. Over the last month, many civilians had been pulled from the unit, probably because nobody wanted any civvies lounging around the base in the event of a shooting war. One simply couldn’t ask them to be running those kinds of risks, the brass had apparently said, although he had heard that many of the Stable boys were being kept due to their intimate knowledge of the Suit installations.
“That’s not what I mean, son,” the doctor replied sourly. “You are Cadet Toni Miura, are you not?”
“Yes, sir. How did you know?”
“I’m psychic,” he replied dead-seriously. A twisted smile then began to play across his face. “Or I just read your nametag. You know, the one pinned to your chest.”
That was enough to put an embarrassed smile on Toni’s face, but it dissipated as the doctor became somber once more.
“What I mean is that I’ve orders to harvest you for stem cells. Now why would they have me do that, boy?” he pressed. Toni shrugged in reply.
“Haven’t a clue, sir. I was fully tested those weeks before day one, and the researchers seemed pretty satisfied. But if they want more blood, they can have it, no problem,” he answered levelly enough, although his blood pressure began to drop at the thought of needles and blood loss.
“Son, they don’t want blood. They want stem cells. Autologous stem cells, to be precise. It’s not going to be as painless as, say, a needle prick, so you’d better prepare yourself for some real pain. You’re going to lose some marrow,” the doctor stated with a grim smile. “Take your shirt off and sit over there,” he ordered bluntly, waving carelessly at a metal cot as he began to remove instruments from a drawer.
“Uh, marrow?” Toni inquired softly as blood drained from his face. The doctor looked irritated by Toni’s lack of immediate compliance, but answered him anyway.
“Yes, boy. Marrow. Bone marrow. Sweet, juicy bone marrow for your Commander’s evening soup. Now you go sit over there before I start telling everyone that you’re a coward,” the doctor threatened.
The threat proved to be just enough to get Toni moving.