Friends At The Table

Cass had not brought their big medical bag. There was the box in the ship, of course, with the mint-coloured lid and little trays, but their black bag hung where it always did: on a hook beside the door, back in Centralia. In the inside pocket of their jacket was a fabric pouch, folded over and sealed with velcro. A thin tube of medical sealant, a pair of needle-nose scissors, a flat spool of thread, antiseptic cream, gauze, and a small phial of epinephrine.  They didn’t need any more than that. As soon as Godlove’s call came through and they watched him studiously, awkwardly walk through the briefing (each syllable of “Ithikos” carefully sounded, a furrowed, sympathetic brow with the mention of the revenants) they knew that they had been hired as a doctor second, and an Apostolisian first.  Godlove probably expected them to “work their contacts.” They’d have contacts, of course, here in the Sill. No doubt. Among the casino family, or perhaps in the Agora. Perhaps an old friend from the war. That’s how it wor