Chapter 22

Pan chafed at confinement to his room. He had been poked and prodded, measured, weighed and bled; again and again for three weeks. Every day, after lunch, the nurse and a physical therapist would bring him crutches and encourage him to move around. He couldn't leave the medical bay, but they had him stumping up and down the passageway. During the rest of the day, he sat, and waited.

The staff provided him with a book reader and access to the ship's library, but only the entertainment files, and they even provided him with a holo screen and access to thousands of recorded programs. He was not, and had never been, one to sit and idle the day away.

He was bored out of his mind and convinced that he was a prisoner in all but name, though the medicos insisted that he was confined to the medical ward until they were sure that the strange biological infection had been defeated.

After he began pestering Dr. Bagley about leaving the medical bay, and about Doctor's curious inability to get clearance for him to communicate with the outside world, he received a visitor.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, absentmindedly rubbing his now mostly healed stump, when the door opened and into the room strode a man in civilian clothes. He was a slim, dapper man and was dressed in a suit that would have cost Pan at least a year of his pay. He was tall, and would have been taller still had his shoulders not had a pronounced stoop, as though he had spent many years carrying a heavy weight.

His hair was steel gray, and slicked back to his skull. The face was thin and sharp, his mouth the merest slash above his pointed chin. There were no laugh lines around the mouth or his pale gray eyes, but plenty of deep worry lines on his forehead. He was middle aged, probably about seventy-five or eighty Earth years old, but his manner was that of someone much older.

The man was accompanied by a pair of well-dressed bruisers, in matching suits that gave the impression of uniforms, who placed themselves inside the room, one on each side of the door, and stared at him impassively.

"Mr. Depres, or perhaps I should call you Pan, yes? Or, just maybe, you prefer David Moore, your birth name."

Pan crossed his arms in front of his chest, feigning nonchalance, determined not to show how fast his heart was beating or the sudden chill he felt at the information revealed in those two simple sentences. He elected to remain silent, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"I am Mr. Smith. This is my ship. You are my guest. You will remain my guest for as long as you are useful to me." The man spoke in short, clipped sentences, as if he was not sure the listener was capable of understanding anything more involved.

"I know a great deal about you, Agent Pan. I know about the Agency, about your Director and his staff. I know about your Sector Commanding Officer, code named Minerva. I know about the Citadel and the activities carried on there. What I do not yet know, is what to do with you. My advisers have urged me to simply dispose of you, but I have demurred, for now. I, for one, would like to know how interested the Agency is in getting you back in one piece. To that end, I have ordered my staff to see that you are healthy and happy. Or, at least, as happy as you can be, considering the circumstances."

Mr. Smith stopped for a moment, as though expecting a reply.

Pan, not interested in playing games and not in the mood for idle chatter, remained silent and glared at Mr. Smith.

"I have informed the good Doctor that you may be released. You will be moved to a small, but comfortably appointed stateroom. You will have limited access to the rest of the ship, though only to the public, unrestricted areas. These areas are clearly marked. You will be assigned a helper, who will be with you at all times when you are out of your stateroom. You will not leave your stateroom for any reason without your helper. You will not attempt to access restricted areas. You will not assault or hamper my staff. You will not attempt to damage the ship in any way. You will not attempt to communicate with anyone not authorized by your helper. Do you understand, Agent Pan?"

Pan nodded, but remained silent.

"If you should break one of these rules, you will be confined to a small cell in the brig. If you make a nuisance of yourself, I may change my mind about your potential value and just have you pushed out of an airlock."

With that final threat, delivered so casually, as though discussing the weather or the menu for dinner, Mr. Smith turned and left the room, his thugs in tow.

Dr. Bagley breezed in just as soon as Mr. Smith's retinue had cleared the door. He waited for the door to close behind him and looked closely at Pan before breathing a sigh.

"Mr. Depres, I don't know who you are or why you are here. I don't know anything about what you and my employer discussed and, frankly, I don't want to know. I am just the doctor and that is all I want to be." Bagley paused, looking pensive. His stared at his hands, as if he wasn't sure what to do with them. Finally, he clasped them together behind his back and continued.

"You seem like a really nice guy, and I am genuinely glad that I could help you regain your health. I regret keeping you in the dark, but I had my orders." Bagley's hands had broken free again and rose to shoulder height, palms up, as if to say 'What could I do?'

"Now, I understand that you are being moved into a stateroom today. I would ask one favor of you, before you go."