Space Magic
here.” A pang ran through Thatcher’s chest and stomach at the words—a feeling of being pulled in two. No going back now.
    The first man pulled a scuba knife from his boot and began cutting Thatcher’s straps, while the bearded one braced his shoulder against the door and peered out the window. The woman ducked down below the foot of the bed. “You can call me Bravo,” the man with the knife said while he cut. “The other man is Judah, and the woman’s Angel.”
    As soon as one arm was free, Thatcher pulled the tape off his mouth. It hurt. “Can you walk?” asked Bravo.
    Thatcher spit out a plastic horseshoe, but before speaking he bit down three times, then twice more. Green digits appeared in his peripheral vision: it was 2:35 a.m. “I’m a little woozy,” he said. Other readouts glowed, green and yellow, as his system came on-line. System status was OK but energy levels were very low. He helped the man free his legs and sat up on the edge of the bed. He saw that the woman, Angel, had pulled on camouflage over her white dress and was smearing black paint on her face. “You’re not a nurse,” he said stupidly.
    At that, the man at the door, Judah, looked at her. “What are you doing?” he said. “We might need the nurse outfit for a bluff!”
    “Too late,” she said. “I’ve already put on the paint.” She pulled on a black knit cap and shoved most of her hair under it.
    “Save it for later,” said Bravo. To Thatcher: “Do we need to find you a wheelchair?”
    Thatcher got to his feet. “No.” Then he had to sit down again on the edge of the bed. “Maybe.”
    The two men supported him while Angel took point, moving down the hall. Thatcher felt hideously exposed in his inadequate hospital gown. At the first corner, Angel started to peer around it, but Judah pulled her back. “Keep your head down,” he whispered. She glared at him, but crouched low and stuck her head out at knee level. Then, with another glare, she waved them forward.
    Two more corners. They didn’t meet anyone—they must all be dealing with the explosion and fire. “The front door guard has a gun under the desk,” Thatcher said. He knew this hospital well; he’d spent seven months here having the system put in.
    “Thanks,” said Judah, “but we’ve already taken care of that.” They rounded a final corner to find the door guard—his name was Dave and he had a girl, five, and a boy, three—on the floor, eyes open and unseeing. Beyond him were glass doors, black mirrors reflecting the bullet-shattered desk.
    “You didn’t have to do that,” Thatcher said.
    “Just another victim in the government’s war on the people,” said the woman. “Come on.”
    They crouched low and scuttled to the doors, acutely conscious that the brightly lighted lobby was plainly visible to anyone outside in the blackness. The doors slid open—Thatcher’s heart jumped at the sudden motion—and they ran through to the shelter of a concrete traffic barrier.
    The west wing of the hospital was on fire, flames roaring and clawing the sky. Fire trucks and medic vans twitched in the shifting orange light; silhouettes of firemen sprayed water on the burning building. Someone was cursing, over and over.
    “We came through the fence over there,” the bearded man said to Thatcher, pointing into the darkness on the far side of the parking lot. “Doesn’t look like they’ve noticed it yet.”
    “OK, let’s go,” said the other man. They kept low and moved quickly from car to car. The pavement was rough under Thatcher’s bare feet, and they splashed in cold water—runoff from the fire hoses. Bitter smoke mingled with the gasoline and asphalt smells of the parking lot.
    Bravo was in the lead as they reached the edge of the parking lot—just a few yards of scrubby grass between them and the fence. As he stepped over the curb, yellow flashes of gunfire burst out of the night to his left and he fell with an “Agh!”
    Angel raised her

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