John Hurt

Protected

"Uh, hello." Even as Spencer spoke, he knew.

Long seconds passed, the recruit finally pulling into a full flight response, wheeling, feet sliding on the dirt.

"Wait!" No point, the recruit was outa here. "First Worlder, then."

But he didn't get far. A woman stepped into his path, dressed in matching khaki, carrying a basket full of cotton bandaging, the rolls flying upwards on impact with the fleeing recruit.

"Saunders!" she snapped. "What is your –"

Freezing, she spotted Spencer, her mouth open in mid-word. Finally tearing her eyes away from him, she picked Saunders up, her knuckles white on his arm.

"Take these supplies straight to the repair crew at the ship. And Saunders." She was nose to nose with him. "Not a word to anyone, is that clear? I will speak with the captain first."

Saunders ran off, taking the crate the woman had shoved back into his arms. She watched him go, pressing her lips together firmly, and then turned to Spencer. Spinning, she marched over to Spencer.

"What are you doing here!" she hissed fiercely, both hands reaching out – Spencer flinched, but she only yanked the folds of the blanket up over his head, way out over his nose so he peered out from under it like a creature in a den.

"You're not supposed to be moving around on your own!"

"Uh. So you –"

"Shh!" she hissed, waving frantically – booted footsteps rushed past them, somewhere nearby in the tent village. "This way."

Turning, flashing Spencer a view of the three-striped patch on her shoulders, she walked past the tent Saunders had appeared from, checking the intersection of footpaths ahead, waving Spencer to follow.

"Hurry up!" she hissed. "You got all the way down here and that's as fast as you can go?"

Shouting voices approached them, more pounding boots, and suddenly a group of soldiers closed on them from all directions, some behind Spencer by the sounds of it, though he was having trouble seeing anything with the blanket on his head. The yelling swelled from the soldiers, the woman spinning in the center of the group with both hands up defensively.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot him, he's with me!" she cried.

"Down on the ground!"

"Kneel on the ground, now!"

They were all pointing their rifles at him, not her.

"Get down on the ground!"

"I can't!" Spencer yelled, holding up the bandaged hand in surrender, while the good hand supported him on the cane, somewhere behind folds of blanket. "If I get down there I won't be getting back up!"

"He's got a laceration in his leg," the woman told them bracingly. "We can escort him to the captain. All right? Let's be civilized about this."

"Civilized!" cried a soldier. "We're about to be barbecued and you want to waste time on manners?!"

"Don't take that tone with me, soldier!" the woman barked. "If you want to stay alive that's exactly what we're going to do!"

All of them shifted uneasily, keeping their weapons trained on Spencer, their square, human teeth gritted like to rows of sugar cubes, bright white against dirty skin.

"All right – all right let's move," the soldier said, walking backwards to lead the way – and the woman took a breath, beckoning to Spencer again.

"Come on," she said. "And try not to make any sudden moves."