orders. "Check for anything the attackers might have left.
Odds are you'll only find bodies, but do your best while I talk to the
locals. Call me on Channel One if you do find anything."

"Yes, sir." Odeon's sergeant led the other three team members into the
building; Odeon himself looked around, and was pleased to find he knew
one of the locals.

He waved. "Rascal! Over here!"

The local returned his wave, jogged over, and saluted. "Mike! I mean,
'Captain Odeon, sir.'"

"Mike's fine," Odeon said. "You haven't touched anything?"

"Huh-uh. Saw the marks the Brothers'd burned into a couple of the
walls inside, and backed off right away to call in the Royals." Rascal
spat. "Damn Brothers! Didn't expect Special Ops, though."

"You'll get SO any time the Brothers are involved, from now on," Odeon
said. "That came straight from His Majesty not five minutes after we
got word they'd hit a hospital. It doesn't look too bad from here,
though."

"From here, no. But, Mike . . . I hope your men have stronger
stomachs than mine turned out to be."

Odeon scowled. "It's that bad?" Rascal Anderson had been in
Enforcement for almost fifteen years, nearly as long as Odeon himself;
it would take more than the aftermath of ordinary violence to make him
sick.

"Worse," Anderson said. "Mike, it looked like . . . like a cross
between a battlefield and a mass third-stage interrogation."

"Dear God." Odeon bowed his head in a brief silent prayer for the
victims, then looked up. "We'll find the bastards who did this, and
make sure--"

His beltcom interrupted him. "Sir, we've found a survivor. ID says
Captain Joan Cortin, Royal Enforcement. Boris is working on her, but
he says she'll need a lot more help than he can give."

"She'll get it," Odeon snapped. Anderson was already signalling
urgently for the medics, who'd been waiting to bring out what everyone
was certain would be only dead bodies. "I'm on my way. Set for homer."

"On homer, sir." The sergeant's voice was replaced by a series of
tones, increasing in pitch and speed as Odeon more than half-ran into
the hospital and through the corridors.

The scenes he passed were as bad as Rascal had suggested, and Odeon's
stomach needed stern control to prevent rebellion. Doctors, nurses,
patients, the service staff--all had been bound, then brutally
murdered. The stench of gutted bodies was enough, even without the
blood and corpses, to stagger anyone.