The waiting area of the Johannesburg General Hospital was swamped. So were the corridors and every other passage. Patients spilled out from everywhere, overflowing a health system that already had its back breaking under a too great a demand and too little resources.

Nurse Ilse Gouws finished bandaging a stab wound and stretched her back. Wiping a hand over her brow, she stared through the open window at the summer day. The sky was purple with a pending thunderstorm. The welcome smell of rain would soften the sharp odor of disinfectant.

“I hate storms,” Caitlin Visage said next to her.

Ilse smiled at the matron. “At least it will cool down the air.”

She waved in the next patient, a woman with tuberculosis who’d come for her monthly treatment. The lady shuffled inside and lowered herself with some difficulty into the only chair.

“We’re out of Rifampin,” Caitlin said, glancing over Ilse’s shoulder at the clipboard.

“How can we be out of Rifampin? I signed off the batch we received on Monday myself.”

“It was stolen.”

“Again?” Ilse propped her hands on her hips, feeling the helplessness to her bones. “What are we doing to catch the culprits?”

“The police said they couldn’t do anything. They don’t have time to investigate our stolen medicine while there are more severe cases to solve.”

“I can’t believe it. We must be able to do something?”

“Like what? I’ve changed the locks God only knows how many times.”

“Clearly, it’s an inside job. We could paint the next batches with invisible ink and scan the hands of every staff member who works on this floor.”

“That’s discriminatory. By law, we’re not allowed to plant traps for our employees. Wouldn’t hold up in court.” Caitlin gave a half-mast smile. “I’ve already mentioned that idea to the last constable who took my statement.”

Ilse blew out a drawn-out breath. Complaining wasn’t going to help the patient staring at her with expectant eyes. She searched the form on her clipboard for the woman’s name. Mosa Nzama.

Pursing her lips, she crouched down in front of the woman with the wrinkled dress and skin. “How long have you been waiting, Mosa?”

“Four hours, Miss.”

Her heart ached with compassion. “We’re out of stock, right now. Why don’t you give me your address, and when the new stock comes in, I’ll deliver it personally.”

“Ilse.” Caitlin’s hand fell soft on her shoulder. “We don’t know if a new batch will come in.”

Ilse ignored the matron. “How about that?” She gave Mosa’s hand a reassuring pat, a poor consolation for the medicine she deserved.

“That’s very kind of you,” Mosa said. “Would you really do that?”

“How long did it take you to get here?”

“Hours. There was a long wait at the taxi rank, and I walked some of the way.”

“Here.” Ilse took a notepad from the desk and handed it to her with a pen. “Write down your address and your number, and I’ll call you before I come over.”

Mosa averted her eyes. “I don’t have a number.”

“Never mind. Just your address will do.”

As Mosa started scribbling, Caitlin gave Ilse a reprimanding look, but the matron only verbally objected again when the patient was gone.

“You can’t do that for everyone,” Caitlin argued. “Plus, you don’t know where she lives.” She stared after the woman’s disappearing form. “It may not be safe for you to go there.”

“At least I’ll make a difference to one life,” she said, dismissing the subject by immersing herself in preparing the examination bed for the next patient.

“Your shift’s been over a long time,” Caitlin said. “Go home and sleep. You’re no good to me dead on your feet.”

Ilse glanced at the clock. It was almost five in the afternoon. True, she’d been on duty since four that morning, and she felt the hours in every fiber of her being. “In a minute. I’ll finish cleaning up in here, and then I’ll go.”

“Matron Visage?” a voice said from the door.

The women turned in unison.

A bulky man stood in the frame. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but a pistol holster showed from under his jacket. He held a badge to the matron. “Agent Pillay. I need a nurse to come with me. We have a prisoner with substantial injuries who needs treatment.”

Strands of hair flew from Caitlin’s bun as she shook her head. “You’ll have to speak to a doctor.”

The man put the badge away and hooked a thumb into his belt. “I already did. They’re understaffed.”

“So are we.”

“Ms. Visage, I’m here on government order. Don’t make me use force.”

“It’s Matron to you,” she said with a lift of her nose. “Where is this patient?”

“In safe holding,” he answered.

“Where would that happen to be?”

“Downtown.”

She pointed a finger at the line of waiting patients. “See for yourself what we’re dealing with. I don’t have time to send a nurse downtown to tend to your prisoner. Bring him here if he needs treatment.”

His cheekbones darkened. “Matron, you don’t want to push me on this.”

“I’ll go,” Ilse said quickly. “My shift has ended, anyway.”

Caitlin turned sharp eyes on her. “You’ve worked twelve hours straight. I need you fresh back here in eight. What you need is a shower, a meal, and to sleep, not to gallivant downtown on a Mother Teresa mission.”

The agent looked Ilse up and down. “What kind of experience do you have?”

“I work here. What do you think?” Ilse challenged.

He nodded once. “You’ll do. Follow me.”

As he turned and she scurried to follow, Caitlin caught her arm. “You’re wearing yourself out.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just going down to the prison and applying a Band-aid or two. I’ll be home, showered, and sleeping before you know it. Happy?”

Caitlin exhaled on a puff.

“Good.” Ilse winked. “See you tomorrow.”

The agent was waiting for her in the corridor, tapping his foot. “I don’t have all day, Nurse…”

“Gouws. Let me grab my bag and a medical kit, and I’ll be right with you.”

“You don’t need a medical kit. We’ve got everything covered.”

“Oh.” She’d been on prison call-out twice, and in both instances she’d taken all the medical supplies. She didn’t have time to ponder the issue, because Agent Pillay was already making his way down the hallway in long strides.

* * *

Thirsty. His body needed rehydration. Drako forced open his eyes. They burned. The air on this planet, at least where he was now, was filthy. A recollection of the crash rammed into his conscience. His whole body jerked. The pain was still there, only worse, but there was something else, too. He tried to move his arms and legs. His suspicion was confirmed. He was tied up. He turned his head an inch. If not for the situation, he would’ve laughed at the ropes that secured his wrists and ankles to four bedposts. For now, he didn’t break them. He scanned his surroundings, preferring to analyze the danger first.

He was lying on what humans would refer to as a mattress, which was suspended on a bed. According to the smell, it was unclean. Lumpy. A very uncomfortable invention. It was soaked red with his blood. The walls of the chamber were white, but stained. The floor was no better, the tiles chipped and in need of degerming. He was alone by appearance, only. The red light in the corner of the ceiling suggested company.

True to his expectations, it didn’t take the Earthlings long after he’d opened his eyes to make their appearance. A metal door opened, and three men stepped inside. They all wore the same uniform. The logo on their shirts stated SASS. South African Secret Service. His worst nightmare come true.

Even with all three men armed with pistols, they kept their distance.

The oldest of the men took a step forward. “Do you speak our language?”

Drako chuckled. “Of course, I do.”

The men stared at him, open-mouthed.

“What are you?” the one in the middle asked.

How gullible would they be? “A test pilot from Denel.” He’d studied their organizations beforehand, knowing Denel fabricated their military aircrafts.

Two of the men exchanged a look. It was the third who replied. “Denel hasn’t been operational for fifteen years.”

“Not that you know of.”

The man who’d spoken first walked to the far wall and removed a hose. He approached the foot end of the bed. “There are ways of making you talk.”

Drako strained his neck to watch the man. “Where is my plane?” He said plane carefully, just like he’d memorized. “The testing is classified.”

“It’s in a safe place. In time, we’ll take you there,” he grinned, “and you’ll show us how it works, as our technicians can’t figure it out. Yet.”

Drako’s muscles tensed so much he almost snapped the ropes. “If you touched it…”

“Of course we have,” the man said. “Now, let’s start again. What are you?” As he asked the question, he pushed the hose to the sole of Drako’s foot. An electric current zapped through Drako’s body. His muscles pulled tight, held in a painful vice from electricity. When the man finally let up, Drako was panting. His jaw ached from the tension.

Seriously? They used shock therapy? Exactly how backward were they?

“Well?” the man asked with a smug expression on his ugly Earthly face.

Drako uttered a throaty laugh. “All right. Thanks for making the rules clear.”

“Turn it up,” the man said to his colleagues.

One of the men approached an antique looking device on a gurney and manipulated a dial switch. He’d scarcely finished when his accomplice zapped Drako again. His body arched off the mattress, his fingers and toes curling with painful spasms. It felt as if his insides were being ripped apart. A few more volts and his brain would be fried.

“Talk!” the man said, aiming the hose at Drako’s exposed genitals.

Enough.

A roar tore from his chest. He flexed his arms and legs. It didn’t take more than that to snap the ropes. In a millisecond, he was on his feet. His baffled attacker dropped the hose, scurrying for a corner while the other two drew their weapons. Before any shots could be fired, Drako grabbed their wrists and pointed the weapons away from him. A crack sounded, followed by a chilling scream. One of the guns fell to the floor. Drako stared at the arm in his grip. The hand hung limp. Crute, these Earthlings were fragile. He’d popped the man’s wrist without any thought of applying such damaging pressure. He was still assessing the surprising damage when the man in the corner raised his gun. Drako ducked before the shot went off, swinging the second armed guard he still held by the arm around as a shield to discourage the other from firing his bullets, but the weight suddenly disappeared from his grasp. Another bloodcurdling cry filled the space. In his hand, he held nothing but an arm. Zut. Were these men made of cardboard? Drako gawked at the flesh in his hand. The man whose limb he’d severed was thankfully unconscious. The remaining two stared at him, their fear a sulfurous smell even stronger than that of the coppery blood.

“Kill him,” the man with the broken wrist screamed.

The one in the corner was still aiming his gun, but the weapon shook too much in his grip to take a clear shot.

“Stop,” Drako said. “I don’t want to hurt you.” More, he added in his mind with a regretful sigh.

“What the fuck are you?” the man with the gun shouted hysterically.

His cover was blown. There was no point in pretending he was testing a secret plane any longer. As for being human, he’d never pass as one. Not after today.

“Take me to my pod.” He nodded at the unconscious man who was losing blood even faster than himself. “I can heal him.”

“Don’t listen to him! Shoot him! Shoot the motherfucker before he kills us with his bare hands.”

Before Drako could deliver a more convincing argument assuring them he meant no harm, the door opened and several men in similar uniforms armed with automatic rifles rushed through.

Drako lifted his hands, palms facing forward, in the Earthlings’ non-verbal command for cease-fire. “Take me to my pod, and all will be well for everyone.”

“Like hell,” a man with red hair and a bushy moustache mumbled. “Stick him.”

The muscle of Drako’s upper arm twitched as something sharp pierced the skin. A hypodermic needle stuck out from his arm. He pulled the injector from his flesh. The odor was sharp on his enhanced olfactory sense, but one he was unfamiliar with. Surrounded by SS guards, it was hard to say where the assault had come from, not that it mattered. There were too many of them. He was about to launch into another speech, appealing to their common senses to let him heal the wounds he’d sustained and those he’d inflicted when Earth tipped under his feet and gravity spun out of control.