Gently, without making more than the minimum amount of noise, I swung it open and moved carefully around it.
The fist that hit me in the face seemed to be astonishingly well aimed, considering the total darkness. I presume that it was the knuckle of the middle finger which smashed into my nasal cartilage.
The snap was audible.
I was hurled backwards, swept unceremoniously off my feet by the momentum of the punch. I was in too much pain already to take much notice of the jarring as my coccyx, elbows, shoulders, and head made violent contact with the floor.
I tried to swear, but the pain was so intense that the reflexive explosion turned the word into something half way between a gasp and a yell.
Lights came on abruptly, dazzling me.
I clutched at my broken nose with both hands, feeling the warm blood gush out into my palms, soaking the sleeves of my shirt.
I had been stabbed more than once in my early days on the streets, before I acquired the kind of IT that rendered such wounds more tolerable, but that had been a long time ago. I had been cossetted by good IT for more than twenty years give or take a hypothetical thousand and the pain of my present injury was probably worse, even on an objective scale, than any inflicted upon me during my misspent youth. It was horrible.
When my eyes began to adjust to the brilliant light they were full of tears, which had to be blinked way before I could hope to see where I was or who had hit me. There was no thought in my mind of reprisal, or even of evasive action in the face of further danger. There was just the pain, and the fear that whoever had hit me might take a second shot.
It didnt make me feel any better to see that the face peering down at me seemed more puzzled than angry, with perhaps the faintest hint of regret.
It was the face of Solantha Handsel.
Somehow, I was able to take note of the fact that she was staring at her own hand in utter bewilderment, and I had enough presence of mind to leap to the conclusion that it wasnt the discovery that it was me she had hit that had puzzled her. Her regret wasnt apologetic: she was amazed and slightly upset by the fact that hitting me had made her own hand hurt. She hadnt had the dubious benefit of my upbringing. Shed always had good IT, and hadnt ever worn dead clothes. If I was unprepared to find myself in this condition, she must be in a much greater state of shock.
Even so, it was me that had taken the punishment. She might have hurt her hand, but she hadnt broken her nose.
By the time Michael Lowenthals lightly bearded face had appeared beside the bodyguards I had found the energy and ability to swear. I took abundant advantage of the opportunity, but I didnt forget to look around. I felt that I had to try to keep up with the news, even though I was in sore distress.
The room we were in wasnt vast, but space was at a premium because it was so extensively cluttered with boxes and equipment. There was a folding table propped against one ceiling-high stack of boxes, and a whole pile of folding chairs beside it. If Id tried to cross the room rather than making my way along the wall Id probably have tripped, scraping my shins and bruising my limbs but at least I wouldnt have broken my nose.
The ceiling seemed a little low. It looked to be a mirror image of the floor, gray and plastic. The walls were gray too, although they seemed to be fitted with an abundance of equipment and hatches, as well as a superabundance of doors with handles. Everything was plastic, except where gleaming metal showed through. Some of the bits of gleaming metal looked like the heads of rivets. Other bits looked like screwheads.
Even in buildings deserted during the Crash Id almost
never seen rivets or screwheads. Rivets and screwheads were pre-Gantz, and pre-Gantz was practically pre-civilization. It wouldnt have been quite as strange if theyd been rusted, but they werent. They looked new. Maybe not brand new, but new enough.
I finally managed to turn the stream of my curses into a coherent sentence, which was: Have you any idea how much this hurts, you stupid bitch? The pronunciation came out all wrong, because my nose was flooded by the blood that I was still spilling, but the meaning seemed to get across.
Solantha Handsel shook her head ever so slightly, to signal that she hadnt a clue, even though her own hand was throbbing. I hoped that shed broken the knuckle, but the perfunctory way she was shaking it suggested that she hadnt.
The bodyguard should have been the one to check the damage shed inflicted, but when my head sagged back on the floor the face that came into view, upside down, was Niamh Hornes. It was she who finally managed to get the protective hands away from my nose so that she could inspect the damage.
Do you want me to try to straighten it? she asked.
Like an idiot, I must have mouthed yes.
The cyborganizer reached out to press the broken cartilage back into position, and I found out what real pain was like.