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Text File | 1992-10-15 | 42KB | 870 lines

               Copyright 1992 by Jim Vassilakos
                      All Rights Reserved

     Permission is granted by the copyright holder to copy
      and distribute this work such that no commercial or
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---------------------------------------------------------------



                            Nineteen



The morning sun's delicate rays curved across Calanna's sloping
horizon, blues and reds mixing together in a strange and
beautiful tapestry of seas and continents spinning gently in the
vastness of space. Erik watched from the open airlock, his eyes
full of the gorgeous vista. It had been a long time since he'd
seen a world from orbit with nothing between his nose and vacuum
save for a thin layer of plastic. It had been a very long time,
though it was even longer to fall.
   "A little closer."
   Below them, the target vessel waited in impassive silence, its
starboard aft gaping and gnarled like a crippled beast emersed in
deathly slumber. Slowly it grew, until they were practically upon
it.
   "Hold us here, bridge. Okay, Beckerson at my back. Gringer and
Saloris, next."
   Erik pushed himself into the void, the orange tether his only
assurance of returning. Splintered open by laser fire, the
vessel's port airlock seemed the best entrance. He slipped
inside, reaching the inner portal. Its opening mechanism was
obviously damaged, though laser scoring didn't seem to have
anything to do with it.
   "Beckerson. What do you make of this?"
   The enlisted man stuck his gloved hand in the broken
electronics compartment, fishing around until he found what he
was looking for. When it re-emerged, he was holding a small,
flattened piece of metal. Erik studied it apprehensively.
   "What is it?"
   "Kinetic projectile casing."
   "What?"
   "A bullet, sir." The others smiled, obviously amused by the
exchange.
   "Don't give me attitude, Mister."
   "No sir."
   Erik reached through the door's smashed window, gently pawing
the opposite side for a switch. When the door finally decided to
move, he wasn't ready for it and ended up obstructing its egress
into the wall with a padded arm.
   "Damnit... stop it!"
   Saloris fired his laser into the groove between the door and
its compartment until the mechanical apparatus agreed to
surrender its quarry. They successfully dislodged his arm moments
later.
   "Well, at least that got it open."
   Beckerson nodded, "Good job, sir."
   The others managed to keep straight faces this time, and Erik
found it hard to forge a reply, particularly when he saw the
corpse, her skin frozen and eyes sunken inward, the fluid beneath
them still boiling away in the silent vacuum.
   "My God."
   Beckerson turned against the bulkhead in agreement, for once
without a wise-crack to share as Saloris stepped cautiously over
the body, Gringer at his back.
   "Hold, people." Erik squeezed past them, "I'm sorry I didn't
warn you. This wasn't entirely unexpected."
   "What the hell are we looking for, sir?"
   "Survivors. Exactly as you were briefed. But I remain in
front."
   Saloris let a wry smile escape his lips.
   "By my guest."
   Erik shook his head, "I wasn't asking your permission,
Saloris. You're at my back. Everyone turn on your head lamps."
   They reached the intersection in the corridor and turned left.
The laser carbine scuttled silently along the floor as Erik
gently nudged it, and the half-open iris valve showed heavy laser
scars. Inside, two bodies rested in a corner, their vacc suits
smothered beneath hundreds of flattened, red, bubbling spheres.
Erik slowly inched forward, inadvertently kicking the globules of
blood this way and that, as he bent over, shining his head lamp
into a pair of brown eyes.
   "Pupil reflex positive. We've got a live one, people."


                          *     *     *


Touch-downs and take-offs were always the best parts. Those few
she experienced reminded her of life as a young girl, always
getting a window seat so she could see the darting scenery. As a
Commodore, her treatment was much the same. She was cloistered by
her aides, pampered by her servants, and each world she visited
seemed like no more than a montage of elegant architecture and
postcard panoramas, not so much because of the worlds themselves
as because of her remote and incredibly detached perspective.
Somehow, after decades of tireless work, she had finally come
full circle. That was the bitter taste of success: to have
accomplished all of one's goals, yet to have ultimately changed
nothing.
   They treated her as a child, albeit a child to be obeyed. In a
strange sort of way she rather liked it, but it was too rare that
she could visit the fun spots on a planet, even those where the
Empire was respected. Instead, her aides kept her cooped in
orbit, tantalizing her with selected scenes from various travel
videos so as to give her the illusion of adventure. She'd seen
the Undercity, the Runyaelin, and even the Palace of Snagarth
over and over again, though to have actually visited any of those
places could have meant her life. Of that, she had little doubt.
   So used was she to her sheltered existence, that if it wasn't
for the cool, fresh breeze sifting her hair, she could have
imagined herself in an entertainment booth back aboard the
Crimson Queen, watching the local star's amber rays scatter
carelessly across an illusory, purple horizon. A great risk it
was to breathe fresh air beneath a wild, open sky, she thought to
herself, as the guards formed a protective circlet around her.
   "Lieutenant."
   "Sir?"
   "Is it dawn or dusk?"
   "Dawn, sir."
   "Good."
   It meant that real sunlight, not artificial radiation, would
touch her for the first time in weeks. She smiled in
anticipation. First, however, she had business to attend to, and
the sooner it was over, the better.
   The starport administrator's office was about as plush as
Imperial specifications would allow. General Gardansa sat behind
the mahogany desk, standing and saluting at she entered. It was
their first meeting in person, though she had grown rather used
to him during their electronic meetings.
   "Commodore, what a glorious occasion. Please be seated. I must
warn you that your visit comes as somewhat of a surprise. What,
with the civic unrest, we have not been able to take all the
security precautions..."
   "Forget about my security, General. We both know why I'm
here."
   "Ah... yes. The starport. I assure you, no harm has come to
it."
   "I noticed you people are without power."
   "We shut down the main generator as a precaution. With the
nuclear incident, it was not inconceivable that the rioters would
try to take an eye for an eye."
   Reece nodded, "I understand that you had some sort of incident
this morning."
   "Incident?"
   "...that you ordered an air strike on an unarmed merchant
craft which was harbored at this facility."
   The general laughed as he leaned back.
   "Ah... of course. As I expected, your information is less than
complete."
   "Do tell."
   "The craft you speak of was smuggling a suspected felon off-
planet. It was in the process of departing when we discovered the
crime in-process and acted accordingly."
   Reece arched an eyebrow, mildly amused by the story.
   "What sort of felon?"
   "I will make all our information available to you in due
time."
   "Did you manage to catch the person?"
   Gardansa frowned, "Unfortunately, no. This was the reason I
was so insistent that our airspace not be violated. By sending
down your inspectors at such an inopportune moment and having
your gunships fire on us as we attempted to pursue our suspect...
ah... we we're unable to deal effectively with the situation at
hand."
   "I am told that your vessels harassed ours first."
   "A misunderstanding, I am certain. However, now that we have
cleared the smoke between us, I hope that you will return our
suspect, especially in consideration of the fact that the vessel
we intended to pursue is still in our airspace."
   "It's in orbit."
   "Technicalities, merely. May I interest you in a drink?" He
opened one of the desk's drawers, ushering forth two glasses.
Commodore Reece was about to decline when a subtle knock came
from the door.
   "Commodore, you have an urgent call."
   "If you'll excuse me, General. This will just be a moment."
   "Take your time," he smiled, a glass in each hand. "As you can
see, I am in good company."
   She stepped onto a balcony with her private aide, snatching
the radio from his hand and shooing him back inside.
   "Wait. Is this coded?"
   "Yes sir."
   "Good. Leave me. This is Reece."
   The static on the other end was fairly fierce.
   "Hello?"
   "Commodore, this is Lieutenant Torin."
   "Go ahead Lieutenant. I read you."
   Erik took a deep breath, the communications officer leaning
beside him catching the hint and getting up to fetch a highbowl
of zardocha.
   "We've recovered one survivor from the target, sir. The
doctors say he'll be fine but that he'll need time to recuperate
before we can get any information."
   "Have you confirmed that he's ISIS?"
   "Not yet, but considering the wavelength he chose to make
initial contact, I'd say it's pretty much a sure thing."
   "What about the craft? Did the local's damage it badly?"
   "Well, they shattered the fuel tanks. According to our
engineer's, the drives are still in working order, but the thing
just ran out of pep before it could really break free of the
planet's gravity well."
   "You mean it's coming back down?"
   "Yeah... well, they've been telling me that we should either
tow it to a safer altitude to make repairs or rig up an
independent fuel supply. If we want to keep the ship, that is."
   "How long until it falls low enough to burn-up in the planet's
atmosphere?"
   "Umm... we've been getting jolted up here by scattered clouds
of gas, but disintegration is probably a week away, at least."
   Reece chewed her lower lip, weighing the options.
   "This is the problem, Lieutenant. Our friend up there
committed some crimes down here, and the local representative is
already talking about extradition. They're not going to sit on
their hands for even a day while their suspect is floating only a
few kilometers over their heads."
   "We can assume custody, can't we?"
   "Probably, but there would be a stink, and the locals are
restless enough as it is."
   "Then what do we do? I'm sure they've already scanned us
making contact."
   Reece shook her head, "Two vessels in the same place, one an
Imperial gunship and the other an independent merchant, and
beyond that, they know nothing. So this is the story. Instead of
allowing himself to be captured, their suspect turned his nose
directly into the gravity well and hit full throttle."
   "That's suicide."
   "And from what I understand, far safer than Calannan justice.
As far as we are concerned, this rescue never happened. How's it
sound?"
   Erik blinked, "You're asking my opinion?"
   "Lieutenant, right now you are the closest, healthy thing I
have to an ISIS representative. Yes, I'm asking for your
opinion."
   "Well, although it's unlikely, I can't rule out that the
initial transmission Captain Dunham received wasn't monitored,
and if it was..."
   "I can live with a small risk. Anything else?"
   "Um... we've been practically coupling ship-to-ship up here.
Considering the proximity, they're probably not going to believe
us."
   Reece smiled, "I'm not asking if they'll buy it."
   "Well, some will, and some won't. But they can't prove we're
lying. That's what diplomacy boils down to, right?"
   "More or less. Anything else?"
   "Not offhand."
   "Then you know what to do."
   "Yes sir."
   "Good. Do it. Reece out."
   The communications officer returned with the zardocha,
floating a highbowl in Erik's general direction as he fidgeted
with the various knobs and dials. Erik took a sip and then downed
the icy liquid in one shot. It was already well past his sleep
shift, and he knew he'd need the jolt of wake-up and several more
like it just to keep going.
   "How do I get engineering?"
   "Here."
   "Cooper, you down there?"
   "Right here, Erik." Her voice sounded crisp and almost perky,
one of those workaholics who enjoyed any chance to get out and
play with a new piece of machinery. They'd met at the officers'
club some four months back during a surprise birthday bash for
one of the fleet's retired admirals. Thereafter, he'd been found
hanging around engineering a little more often than he'd like to
admit. She caught on pretty quick but seemed more amused than
interested, so he put away his notions before they ever got
around to becoming more than notions.
   "Erik, you there?"
   "Yeah. Sorry. I'm gonna have to take you up on that offer."
   "Which one?"
   "About the collapsible deuterium compartment. Time is an
issue."
   "Oh, sure. Inside two hours. No problem."
   "Good."
   "You want to forward Arch the specs on our new toy?"
   "No. We aren't taking her back to the Crimson."
   There was a short pause on the other end.
   "Then what are we doing?"
   "Your new toy's taking the big plunge. Hate to be the one to
break the news." He smiled.
   "Any special reason?"
   "I'd tell you if I could, but I can't, so I won't. Okay?"
   Another pause, and he could almost see the dejected look in
her eyes.
   "Oh well. Fireworks from orbit, I guess."
   As far as fireworks went, they weren't particularly exciting.
They even went out of their way to make sure nobody got hurt.
Erik kept his eyes open and alert, however, right until the very
end.
   "Impact confirmed."
   Traveling at several hundred kilometers per hour, an impact
with the Aeluin meant instant destruction of whatever hadn't
disintegrated on the way down. The locals had kept clear once
they realized what was going on, and from their radio
transmissions, it didn't sound like they were going to
investigate. At a depth of several kilometers, who would?
   Erik entered his quarters, exhausted but very satisfied with a
job well done. Almost done, he reminded himself, as he keyed in
the strongbox's combination. Though blurry-eyed, he was careful.
One slip of the finger would mean incineration of the records,
not to mention his life. The vault opened, and he found the
folder he was looking for, slapping the door shut with a stern
swipe of his hand.
   "Computer. Access medical records, John Doe."
   "Done."
   "Display picture, facial, forward."
   The chiphead's picture emerged on the far wall. Erik leafed
through the personnel folder. All it's information could easily
be contained on one flimsi, but for security's sake, ISIS
insisted on using a lower, more combustible technology. He knew
what was really going on, of course. They just wanted to scare
the hell out of him, and at that they usually did a good job.
   *Ding*
   He lifted his head, his mind so fuzzy that he wondered if he
was imagining noises.
   *Ding*
   "Computer, open channel visitor."
   "Hey Erik, you in there?" It was Cooper. He was about to tell
the computer to open the door when he bit his tongue before the
words could drop out."
   "Yeah, sort of. What's up, Lieutenant?"
   "I was hoping we could talk."
   "Sort of late for a social visit, isn't it?"
   "The way you were guzzling zardocha, I figured you'd be wide
awake."
   "What's this about Lieutenant?"
   "Well... I was wondering why we destroyed that ship back
there. I'm sort of confused as to who's making the decisions, and
I was just hoping you could just clue me in a little."
   Erik snorted, "The decisions come straight from the top. It's
better not to question them, okay?"
   "Yeah, I sort of figured you'd say that. You gonna let me in
or what?"
   "I'm really tired."
   "Don't brush me off, Erik."
   He winced. He wanted to let her in, but he knew it'd be a bad
idea. She didn't have a need to know, which meant telling her
anything could spell his court-marshall. Better to just piss her
off all at once than bit by bit, he figured.
   "I'm sorry. I can't talk to you right now."
   "What's the matter? You got somebody in there?"
   He thought about it.
   "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Be good and go away, and maybe it'll be you
next time. Computer, close channel."
   Erik felt like the ultimate weenier even though he kept
reminding himself that he had no real choice, not unless he
wanted to do time for being a nice guy.
   *Ding* *Ding* *Ding*
   "Computer, modify defaults, channel visitor, attention off for
one hour."
   "Done."
   Erik leafed through the folder, looking for the face. The
image of the chiphead on his wall might have looked strangely
familiar, but all he could focus on were the metallic head tricks
and Cooper's little visit. No doubt she already suspected
something. She was the type of person who would start asking
questions. He dictated a quick request to have her transferred,
finally leafing through the folder a second time, focusing on
every detail in its proper order.
   It contained typical restricted information: all sorts of
facts, none of them useful, except one perhaps. The chiphead
wasn't mentioned anywhere. Erik groaned, a sickened feeling
sloshing over him. There was one more problem with the
Commodore's plan, now painfully obvious. Destroying the ship
meant destroying evidence about who this character was.
   "Computer, open channel, voice only, medical section, Dr.
Hunter."
   The line clicked open with an audible pop.
   "Sickbay, Sosrodjojo speaking."
   "This is Lieutenant Torin. Is Dr. Hunter in?"
   "Um... I think she just stepped out. Can I take a message?"
   "I really need to speak to the patient."
   Erik could almost see the nurse smiling on the other end, his
voice lathered with amusement. He'd called before and talked to
the same nurse at length. He knew what to expect.
   "No can do, Lieutenant. He's still resting."
   "When will he wake up?"
   "Ah... you'd have to talk to Dr. Hunter about that, but I'm
sure she'll tell you try back no sooner than tomorrow."
   Erik sighed, "Okay, but there may be a problem with the
patient. I want him moved to the cage."
   "The cage? You really think that's necessary?"
   "I don't know, but I'd rather we took the precaution."
   "Ah... very well. I'll call security."
   The line closed with the same pop it made while connecting,
and Erik scratched his head, starring at the image on the wall.
   "Computer, locate person. Captain Dunham."
   "Done."
   "Say."
   "Captain Dunham is on the main bridge."
   Erik leaned back on the couch.
   "Open channel, voice only, main bridge."
   There was a short pause.
   "Bridge."
   "Get me the captain."
   Erik sat back up when he heard the captain's deep, resonant
voice.
   "This is Dunham."
   "Captain, this is Lieutenant Torin. I'm Commodore Reece's
special attache."
   "I know."
   "I need to talk to you."
   "You can find me on the bridge. I'll arrange for your
clearance if that's a problem."
   "Clearance isn't a problem, Captain. I need to speak with you
privately. There's a little discrepancy in the records we need to
clear up."
   "Ah... I doubt I can be of any help to you there, Lieutenant."
   Erik rubbed his eyes, trying to think of some way to push
nicely.
   "It could be important, Captain. When can I meet you?"
   He heard a heavy breath on the other end.
   "Alright, Lieutenant. My quarters. One hour."
   "Thank you, Captain."
   Erik spent his spare time walking the passenger decks. Without
his uniform, he drew little attention and soon ended up in the
Slippery Whisker, one of the Crimson Queen's less ritzy canteens.
Cooper was probably down in engineering, he figured, reminding
himself that he felt like dirt, though he knew he'd made the
right choice.
   The crowd was fairly thick, so he just ordered and drank,
sitting alone in an alcove with his back to the wall. He
preferred his little corner to the bar where masses of people
pressed together without any semblance of order or civility. On
this occasion, one rose above the rest, not so much in stature as
in head gear. Erik watched the tall spokes on the man's head
jiggle back and forth as he nodded to one of the bar wenches. It
reminded him of John Doe, helping to focus his mind on the matter
at hand, and the more he thought about it, the more it irked him.
   Erik made his way back to officers' quarters and hung around
in the lounge until Dunham showed up. The captain was early as
well, though the bored look on his face didn't portray a man who
was looking forward to this meeting. Rather, he seemed to just
want to get it over with, as quickly as possible, and Erik
wondered if his own presence on board represented some sort of
threat. Over the years, he'd learned that many of the naval and
quasi-naval officers didn't like ISIS, though they were the very
people most often made to cooperate with the service. Erik had
always figured it was because the Navy had it's own intelligence
division, but nothing about the captain's mood betrayed
professional jealousy.
   "Enter."
   Dunham's cabin was fairly unassertive. It could be called
spartan, if not for the shimmer-sketches upon the wall. They were
unsigned, though each revealed a similar style. Erik recognized
one as being of the commodore. The picture depicted her on the
observation deck, looking longingly into the studded darkness of
space and at a world turning gently below.
   "Your work, sir?"
   "A hobby of mine. It helps me relax."
   Erik turned around.
   "My reason for wanting to speak with you concerns a
conversation you allegedly had with our lucky guest."
   "Before you continue, Lieutenant, I must confess that it was
hardly a conversation."
   "Nevertheless, you did speak with him."
   Dunham nodded, "I've already reported that to the commodore."
   "And you also reported that our guest told you that he was an
ISIS operative."
   "That's correct."
   Erik paced to the corner of the room.
   "Captain, this may seem a trivial question, but it's extremely
important that we be absolutely clear on this."
   "I've told you what I can."
   "Think again. Try to remember his exact words. Did he say he
was an ISIS operative or did he say that he was working with
one?"
   "Lieutenant, you've got to understand that our lucky guest, as
you call him, was not especially comprehensible. He was wounded.
I could hear that his voice, even amidst the static, was
fatigued. He was coughing between his words, and beyond that he
was rather upset. In short, he was just barely making sense at
all."
   "You're telling me you don't know what he said."
   "I'm telling you that what he said and what he meant may be
two different creatures entirely. I asked him who he was. He
replied that he was an ISIS operative, not that he was working
for one. However, considering his physical state at the time, it
wouldn't surprise me greatly if I was misinformed."


                          *     *     *


"You sure this is such a good idea?"
   Johanes looked up, a little peeved that Cecil's spoke-headed
disciple was having second thoughts.
   "What are you bitching about? I'm the one who's drinking it."
   Spokes shrugged and continued stirring as Johanes turned up
the particle stream, watching the bottom of the bowl with an
increasingly intense stare. If it stopped simmering evenly it
would be useless, and if it rose to a boil it would make him sick
for at least a day. The trick was in getting it just right; such
was the nature of Draconian toe-jam.
   It was a temperamental and unusually fragile drug. Johanes
remembered one instructor telling a class of recruits how home-
made batches were held to spoil on the side of caution nine times
out of ten, hence the Realm's enormous profits on their peculiar
version, which was widely regarded as having the best trade-off
between safety and potency. What naturally resulted was a "get
'em hooked and milk 'em dry" external revenue policy, while
inside the Realm itself, the drug was taxed to extinction.
Meanwhile, competitive operations were encircled and incorporated
via the corporate state's ruthlessly legal policy of economic
barbarism, or so Mike might have called it. Johanes gritted his
teeth. He would find out soon, one way or the other.
   "You'd better hurry on that," Cecil murmured from his corner
of the room, his meditation seemingly concluded.
   "You have the frequency and encryption set-up?"
   The cameras nodded, as he flicked the little, communications
package into the air, it's metallic casing no larger than a
walnut. Johanes caught it in one hand, hoping sincerely it would
come of some use.
   "A little slower. You're cooling the outside too fast."
   Spokes shook his head, "We should just fix some hellacious
flamebowls and be done with it."
   "I need some semblance of lucidity while I'm in there. If we
do this right, I'm as sick as an Alfirinian marsh slog for half a
cent, and after that, all I have to deal with are the vibes."
   Spokes grinned, "Lucky bastard."
   Johanes nodded. His first two years of training included a
fairly substantial appreciation of the drug culture, and the
vibes were one of the loosest highs he had ever experienced. They
were brought on by the interaction of the toe-jam and the body's
own defense chemistry. They never encouraged paranoia, made him
hyper or hallucinate, or even put him on planet nine. It was
different. It was like being totally healthy, completely aware,
and remarkably resonant to reality. In short, it was like not
being stoned at all, except you were, but you wouldn't know it,
and after a few times, just when you thought you'd gotten the
hang of it, you'd wake up to the facts of addiction. He'd seen an
acquaintance almost kill herself by quaffing an obviously burnt
batch on purpose. Good ol' Souxie, she thought she could handle
it, and here he was, practically thinking the same thing.
   "If I don't come out of there after two cents, you tell the
nurse on duty what I did, okay?"
   Spokes nodded, not taking his eyes off his stirring, "Sure. No
problem."
   "I'm serious."
   "I know."
   *Beep* "This is Captain Dunham. Before we enter hyperspace, I
want to take this opportunity on behalf of myself and the crew to
thank you for traveling with Royal Fleet. At this time, I would
advise arosthoros sufferers to begin heading toward sickbay if
they haven't done so already. We will be arriving at Tyber in
roughly twenty-six standard hours. Until then, if we can do
anything to make your voyage more pleasant, please do not
hesitate to inquire with our attendants."
   Johanes shut down the heat, throwing a fist of ground ice into
his highbowl.
   "Okay. It's time."


                          *     *     *


Feso grinned and made the mandatory jokes as he handed out the
space sickness capsules with little, paper cups of water. As
usual, most of the passengers who showed up were over twice his
age. They drank and smiled, nodding and thanking him for his
trouble. One old lady even complimented him on his nice, white,
lab coat. In short, all of them seemed happy, all of them except
for one. He was roughly the same age as Feso himself, yet his
face seemed ashen and worn, as were he psyching himself up for
the black plague. Feso put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
   "Don't worry. You'll be just fine."
   Being a nurse, Feso saw that sort of reaction all the time. In
every batch of passengers, there would be at least one who would
start getting sick scarce minutes before the jump into
hyperspace. Dr. Hunter explained it away as being some sort of
psychological, anal-retentive thing, but Feso could never help
getting worried. Maybe they were carrying some dread illness.
After all, it was impossible to screen everyone thoroughly.
   Dr. Hunter always laughed his distress off as though he were
making a joke. She thought he was funny and told him so, barking
a string of new orders during the very next sentence. Fret was
the natural consequence of an idle mind, in her book. Still, this
guy looked different.
   Concerned undertones reverberated within the sickbay as
everyone felt the disorientation. Several clung to the hand holds
as their knees quaked back and forth, and one man, possibly in
his nineties, sat down on the floor, blinking in confusion as the
room swirled around him. Feso smiled, leaning next to him.
   "Still with us?"
   "Eh?"
   Some laughed, others leaving as they realized that the worst
was over, and Feso helped the old man back to his feet who was
now smiling at his part in the joke.
   "Eh... I was just taking a breather."
   "Yes. I noticed."
   Four of them stayed, the young man he was originally worried
about included. Feso looked them over, feeling foreheads with his
bare palm.
   "How are you feeling?"
   "I still feel dizzy," one replied
   "That's normal. Here, sit down. We have a medicinal compound
already prepared that should get you back on your feet in no
time."
   He administered four injections, three of them seeming to have
some small effect. The young man wasn't responding, however. He
fidgeted in his seat, perspiration soaking his shirt as his face
turned a rosy hue of red. He squinted up with dilated pupils.
   "I'm gonna be sick."
   "It's okay."
   Feso gave him another injection. The man started to lean over
and drool on the floor.
   "Ugghhh!"
   "Umm... okay. You're gonna be just fine."
   "No I'm not."
   "Just wait here."
   "Where are you going?"
   Feso ran to the office. Dr. Hunter was on the comm board,
arguing with the bureaucracy as usual.
   "There's a problem with one of the passengers."
   She looked up as though expecting his outburst.
   "Acute arosthoros?"
   He nodded.
   "What code is the patient?"
   "Green."
   She nodded, "Double the injection."
   "I already tripled it."
   Dr. Hunter put the bureaucracy on hold and started across the
room when she heard somebody vomiting on the floor. The man had
fallen out of his seat, his face smeared with the contents of his
stomach, while the other four passengers were alternating between
looking away and sneaking peeks, their faces masked by utter
revulsion. Only Hunter seemed unaffected.
   "This isn't arosthoros."
   "Then what is it?"
   "I don't know... yet. How long as he been doing this?"
   "About a minute."
   She dragged the man to his feet, pulling him inside intensive
care.
   "Stay with the others. Don't let them leave."
   Johanes felt like he'd been turned inside-out and left to rot
as she dumped him into the gravitic recliner. She immediately
turned her back to him, turning knobs, pushing buttons, as he let
loose with another volley from the interior of his stomach. The
room seemed to turn around on him, flipping and flopping as blood
rushed to his mouth, exiting through his nostrils and lips and
washing itself over his face.
   Hunter examined the readings, a perplexed look crossing her
face. The man's defensive system was going wild. She held him
down with a grip only taught in medical school and took a blood
sample, stepping back to the analyzer with her trophy. The man
continued to shake, his hair now soaked with sweat.
   "Help..."
   "Quiet. I'm working."
   The analyzer broke down the blood into its constituent parts,
and the machine spat back readings she hadn't seen since the
music festival on Satyr IV. She switched the IC open and groaned.
   "You can let the others go, Nurse."
   Feso came darting in a minute later.
   "What was it?"
   "See for yourself."
   She put a pulse monitor around the patient's arm as Feso
studied the output.
   "Artificial contaminant of some kind."
   "Yep. We've got ourselves a druggie."
   Feso breathed a deep sigh of relief, then turned around hoping
she hadn't noticed. Hunter smiled up at him.
   "It's okay. At least it wasn't a contagion, right?"
   He nodded and smiled, somewhat embarrassed, "The possibility
had crossed my mind."
   "You always think that..."
   "And so far, I'm always wrong," he confessed, finishing the
sentence for her. She pressed the ice pack to the back of the
patient's neck as he continued to groan, trying in vain to force
out the emptiness in his belly.
   "He already has a lot of chemicals in his system, but I want
you to administer a stabilizer. It may draw out his body's
reaction to whatever he took, but at least it should keep him
from getting any worse."
   Feso nodded, "Somebody should watch him, right?"
   "You watch him. I don't have time for baby-sitting. I've got a
call on hold."
   "You want me to stay with him alone?"
   Hunter looked her nurse over, a slight frown creeping down her
face.
   "He's a grown man on drugs, Feso. He's harmless, not to
mention pathetic."
   "What if you're wrong?"
   "About him being harmless? Then you load up the hypo-rod and
punch him with a canister of Teramethenol-12. That should keep
him happy."
   "If it doesn't kill him, first," Feso muttered, but she had
already left. He prepared the stabilizer and administered it,
though putting one drug on top of another was more his idea of
recklessness than medicine. Hunter just wanted the bozo to suffer
for a while longer. She knew that he wasn't in any real danger,
and the pulse-monitor would keep an eye on him better than any
human could.
   Johanes turned over, particles of vomit resting at his sides
in the gravitic field. The noise of his breathing sounded parched
and ragged behind the thumping in his ears, and the nurse stood
over him, a concerned though unsympathetic look on the young
man's face.
   "How are you feeling, Mr. Smyth?"
   "Terrible. Is it over?"
   Feso shook his head, "I gave you a stabilizer. It seems to be
bringing your pulse down, but you'll probably be sick for a
while."
   "Great."
   "What did you take?"
   "Huh?"
   "What drug did you take?"
   "Drug?" Johanes tried to laugh, but it only made him feel
worse. "I thought I was space-sick."
   "No. The doctor found some sort of drug in your system."
   "Damn. No kidding. Must have been in that drink I had. Those
Calannans sure do have a wicked sense of humor."
   Feso blinked, "You mean you didn't even know?"
   "There was this little pre-jump party on the promenade deck. I
guess things got a little out of hand. Uh oh..." Johanes turned
over and opened his mouth to heave. Only a rotting, stinking
belch came out, the sort that gets holed-up in some damp recess
of the stomach and refuses to poke its head out for weeks at a
time. Feso leaned back once he got a whiff, squinting in extreme
displeasure.
   "Uh... I guess I can leave you alone for a little while. If
you get into trouble, just call through the door. I'll leave it
open, okay?"
   "No problem."
   Johanes switched off the gravitic recliner, settling to the
sticky, white floor, now polka-dotted by various yellow and red
particles of an origin he didn't wish to recall. Meanwhile, the
computerized gadgetry continued to beep in time with his pulse.
He walked over to it, toying with the dials as blood seeped from
his nostrils and onto his lips while his tongue wagged back and
forth, trying to avoid the awful taste.
   "Remember, Jo. You gotta eat apples. They taste the same
coming back up as they do going down. Two meals for the price of
one." It was Souxie's voice in his head, as clear as the last
time he'd heard it. Good ol' toe-jam.
   He was relatively familiar with the operating system. He'd
once used something remotely akin to it in a lab on Estin, except
that the Draconian equipment was far more advanced. This was
cruise liner material, a paltry product by any comparison. The
medical console reported that a job was still in process: blood
sample analysis, unknown compound recognition. He removed the
sample tray, pocketing it and dumping the job out of queue. He
then recalled the last minute of pulse readings from memory and
set the playback into an infinite loop, tearing the pulse monitor
off his arm as quietly as haste would allow.
   The intensive care chamber was long and rectangular, the far
wall coated with long, plastic windows. A narrow corridor ran
behind them, cutting a path between the antechamber and a row of
laboratories. Behind the clear plastic barrier, Johanes could see
someone dressed in a long, white coat walking down the corridor,
holding a stack of flimsies under one arm. The person seemed to
be whistling, through from the behind the plastic, Johanes
couldn't hear the noise, yet from the movement of the man's lips,
he could still pick up the basic rhythm. The lips were cherry
hued, like the front of his shirt, though that used to be white.
He remembered how it had been so thoroughly cleaned at the Arien
estate. Kori had shoved him into the moat just for kicks. She'd
later asked him how he'd felt when the mansion's mascot dragged
him beneath the water in one, swift, tug of a tentacle. It was
only playing, she tried to explain, and they laughed, though he'd
been rather annoyed at the time.
   Johanes blinked, ducking to his belly. He'd probably been
standing there looking stupid for close to a minute, maybe
longer. He tried to focus his mind, but it kept on going off on
tangents. The intrusion of the stabilizer, he figured. Planet
nine would pass by, he reassured himself, as he started noticing
the little cracks in the tile, the variations in the shape of one
from another. He crawled about the chamber, his eyes examining
everything in sight, as he investigated his new surroundings
cubicle by cubicle like a cockroach in search of sustenance.
   At the far end he found what he was looking for. The pulse
monitor made no noise, but from the little, jumping dot on the
console, he could tell that somebody in the bed was alive. He
drew Mike's fiberglass pistol, a little memento he'd been saving
for a special occasion, and standing over the bedside, pulled the
sheets down slowly with his free hand. The headjacks came as
somewhat of a shock, as he fully expected to find a white mane
instead. Holding his breath, he pulled the sheet a little
further.
   "Michael."
   There was no response, and Johanes grinned as he re-concealed
the firearm, shaking the gatherer by the shoulder.
   "C'mon. Wake up."
   From the antechamber he could hear voices, one of them a
woman's, strangely familiar.
   "We'd rather wait until he's awake before we start moving him
around. Besides, he's safer in intensive care. If something goes
wrong, we can treat him better in there than in the cage."
   "Look, doctor. I have direct orders to make sure he gets
moved, so he's getting moved. End of story."
   "I understand, but he's still at a very critical stage in the
healing process. Why is it so important that he be moved now?"
   "Right. Let me try put this as succinctly as possible. He gets
moved now. We are not having a discussion about it. If you want
to stomp on me, fine. Call my commanding officer and bitch. I
don't care. I have my orders. Nothing personal, okay?"
   "You people haven't even given me his medical records. We have
no idea what sort of prior conditions might exist. If he's not
inside intensive care, I can't assume responsibility for what
might happen."
   "Fine. That's great. Like I said before, I don't really care
what happens to him."
   The security officer entered the chamber, turning first toward
the beeping noise and then to his left.
   "My oh my. What happened to this fella?"
   "Ah...."
   "Space-sickness," Feso interrupted.
   "No. Really?"
   Hunter stood quietly, watching her nurse beneath an arched
eyebrow. The security officer just laughed.
   "I never knew it got that bad. I mean, not on a ship like
this, anyway. Back when I was serving in the navy, one of our
engineers had to crawl outside while we were in the middle of
hyperspace. Very serious repairs. Okay? And he puked his guts out
after we pulled him back in. Just between us, I don't think he
ever really recovered, neither. And the janitors! I mean barf-o-
rama, okay? And they were just a bunch of robots, and they still
got pissed. You know when your robots start getting pissed off,
you've got some serious..."
   "How fascinating."
   "Yeah, and this other time..."
   "The patient is over there. Please, just move him."
   Johanes let the pulse monitor fall again from his arm as they
walked past, dumping the playback job and the rest of the
computer's soft-memory with a silent turn of a power switch. He
then stopped the nurse, who was trailing behind the other two.
   "Real sorry about the mess."
   "Aw... don't worry about it. We have nicer robots than the
navy."
   "Great. Look, I'm gonna get back to that party."
   "No. You can't leave."
   "Sorry. Got to. We ordered a hermaphrodite stripper, and I
really don't want to miss it. Thanks."
   "But..."
   Johanes scampered out of sickbay before Feso could utter
another word. Spokes was sitting on a bench nearby, trying
desperately to hide inconspicuously behind a king-sized flimsi
and a pair of mirrored stick-on shades. If not for the head jacks
poking above the flimsi leaf, he might of succeeded, but as it
was, he made less than the perfect spy. For starters, he was too
honest.
   "You look like garbage and smell like stomach swill."
   Johanes grinned, "Compliments will get you everywhere."
   "Damn. You must be having a good high."
   "No, it evaporated, which is fine because it was pretty rotten
while it lasted. They injected me full of stabilizers."
   "Tough luck."
   "Agreed."
   "You take care of business?"
   Johanes shrugged, "I think Michael beat me to the punch.
They're moving him right now."
   "What do we do?"
   "You keep your eyes peeled. I'm going to take a shower."


           _   /|
           \`o_O'          Jim Vassilakos
             ( )     <---  [e-mail]
              U            ucsd!ucrmath!jimv (uucp)
           Aachk!

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