Earth Afire (The First Formic War)

plate anyway and followed her back to her office.
    A holo of an adult-sized human skeleton was floating on its back in the air above Kim’s holodesk. Windows of data surrounded it, along with handwritten notes in Kim’s squiggly shorthand.
    “Looks like we’re a party of three for breakfast,” said Mazer.
    Kim waved her hand through the holofield, and the skeleton disappeared. “Sorry. Not exactly what you want to see before eating.”
    There was always something floating above Kim’s desk. If not bones, then muscles or the circulatory system or some cross section of damaged tissue. She had studied medicine at Johns Hopkins in the U.S. and done her residency at one of the most notoriously brutal trauma centers in Baltimore. Despite being one of the youngest doctors on staff, she quickly built a reputation for being coolheaded and smart in the most gruesome situations. Several medical associations honored her, and it was those citations that had brought her to the attention of Medicus, which had offered her a position at their corporate offices in New Zealand with the promise that she would be helping far more people by working as a medical consultant.
    The company made the Med-Assist device, a holopad designed to help soldiers treat battle wounds. It could do anything: bone scans, blood work, give surgery tutorials, even administer drugs. It was like having a medic in your pocket, only you had to do all the work. The U.S. military had funded the initial development and now used the device extensively throughout all branches of their service. Other countries had since jumped on board. A device for the New Zealand Army was near completion.
    “Is that the new Kiwi version you’ve been working on?” Mazer asked, gesturing to a Med-Assist on the corner of her desk.
    “Latest prototype,” she said, handing it to him. “Tell me what do you think of the voice.”
    He turned on the device, clicked through the first few layers of commands, and placed it over his leg. A scan of his femur appeared on screen, the image tinged in green. A woman’s voice with a New Zealand accent said, “Femur. No trauma detected.”
    “Why isn’t it your voice?” he asked.
    Kim’s voice had been used in the American version. The U.S. Defense Department had asked that the voice be that of a real doctor, and Medicus thought Kim the perfect fit. She was already on staff, she was American, she had great bedside manner, and she was brilliant. Kim had agreed to do it only on the condition that Medicus test several voices along with hers before making the final decision. Medicus complied, recording samples from Kim and other doctors and then bringing in several soldiers from the NZSAS for a focus group. Mazer had been among them, and he was the most outspoken in the group for why the voice should be Kim’s: She sounds like a doctor; she sounds like she knows what she’s talking about; soldiers will be anxious and afraid and at the height of emotional distress; a voice like hers will calm them; I believe every word she says.
    The executives had been delighted, and afterward they had made a point of introducing Mazer to Kim, citing him as proof that she had a lot of recording to do. She had scowled at Mazer playfully and blamed him for giving her more work than she had time for. He had apologized, and in a moment of uncharacteristic spontaneity that surprised himself more than anyone, he asked her to dinner to make it up to her.
    It seemed like such a long time ago now.
    Mazer sat on the sofa opposite her desk. Kim removed her shoes, sat beside him, and draped her legs across his lap.
    “The Kiwi version can’t be my voice,” she said. “New Zealand soldiers want to hear a New Zealander.”
    “I don’t,” said Mazer. “I’d much rather hear yours.”
    She smiled. “It’s a matter of clarity. Americans pronounce words differently. You don’t want a soldier administering the wrong drug or performing an incorrect action because he or she misunderstood the directions.”
    “True,” said Mazer. “But the real reason why it can’t be you is because your voice is so intoxicating. You’re like the sea sirens in The Odyssey . Soldiers become so enchanted by the music of your voice that they get all dreamy and starry-eyed and completely forget about their fellow soldier bleeding out in front of them.”
    She smiled again. “Yes. Tragic when that happens.”
    Why was he being playful? It would only make this more