Blood and Fire (22 page)

“Side effects?”

“Possible nausea.”

“Strain on the liver?”

“A healthy liver should be able to flush ninety percent of the active ingredients within six to twelve hours. Some patients may experience a hangover.”

“I can live with that. I'd rather use a pain-blocker than a sedative, but we don't have time to experiment or send anything else across.”

“Be aware, Doctor, that as soon as you begin replacing the patient's contaminated blood, you'll also be flushing the sedative as well. The after-effects will be minimal.”

Williger made a face, an expression of annoyance. “Right. I forgot. I was juggling six thoughts at the same time. Damn. I knew I was going to go senile someday, I just didn't realize it would be today. All right, let's do it. Berryman?”

A nervous voice answered. “Doctor?”

“We're going to sedate, with small doses of Resnix.”

“Can do.”

“HARLIE will brief you. Start the next patient immediately. We're going to run these in staggered series. We can handle two at a time if we
have to, so don't be afraid of overlap. Let's go.”

This time, the process seemed to run faster. HARLIE's prediction was accurate. As the team of Quillas became more familiar and more skilled, they moved through the steps with greater efficiency. Blintze awakened on the table, blinking in confusion, even before the transfusion was done.

Williger glanced up at her display. “Bingo. Right on the curve.” She lowered her face close to Blintze's. “You're going to live. Answer a question?”

Weakly, Blintze gasped, “What?”

“Are these things native to Regulus IV? What controls them in their own environment?”

It was an effort for Blintze to speak, but he managed to get the words out anyway. They rasped out of his mouth as if each one was escaping from hell. “These things aren't native to anywhere. There aren't any controls. They were created to be ... a weapon. There was a war on Regulus. And these things were unleashed as ... a last, desperate revenge on the winners.”

“With no way of controlling them?” Williger's eyes were wide.

“They were a doomsday weapon.”

“Well, it worked.” But as she turned away, her eyes narrowed. Why were Fleet officers working with doomsday weapons? “Captain Parsons? Did you copy that?”

“I heard it,” Parsons' voice came through Williger's headset. Her tone was equally troubled. “We'll talk later. For now, stay on purpose.”

“All right.” The doctor turned back to the Quillas. “Get him to Med Bay and let's get this gurney moving. “We've got eighteen to go and we're running out of time—” a glance across at a display “—and artificial blood, as well.”

On both starships, the crews worked feverishly. On the
Star Wolf
, Williger had the support team of the Quillas, plus Brian Armstrong, Darian Green and “Toad” Hall, for additional assistance. On the
Norway
, Berryman and Easton worked together as a team—with Korie, Bach and Shibano standing by. But as soon as Korie saw he wouldn't be immediately needed, he retreated to a corner of the Cargo Bay where a work station was still operative. With a little help from HARLIE, he linked it to the
Star Wolf
's network so he could monitor the progress of the operation throughout.

Methodically, the teams worked their separate tasks. On the
Norway
, the patients were deliberately infected with toxic substances and put into suppressive resonance fields. On the
Star Wolf
, the toxic substances and plasmacyte residue were flushed from their bloodstreams. The two starships existed as distinct domains—linked only by the transfer tube, separated only by the repulsor fields.

Each patient was carefully sedated, carefully revived. Every step of the process was monitored by three or more scanners, with HARLIE cross-correlating their readings. Despite the creeping exhaustion of both teams, no serious mistakes were made. A bottle was dropped here, a hose connection came loose there—in each case, the error was caught before it could affect the process. The zero-defect security containment was never compromised. If anything, the greatest danger was boredom—the sheer repetitive madness of doing the same task over and over and over again. After a while, it was hard to remember that what they were doing here was saving lives—and making medical history.

And then, just as Berryman was readying his ninth patient, the warble of the
Norway
's repulsor field ... sputtered. It dipped, halted, hesitated, shifted its tone as it compensated for a momentary hiccup and then came back up again. A swirl of wavicles tornadoed in the corridor.

Berryman looked up from the gurney. His eyes locked with Easton's. Korie and Bach and Shibano also exchanged glances.

Bach spoke aloud what they were all thinking. “That's not going to hold.”

Shibano held out his hands, as if testing the strength of the field by touch alone. “I give it ... forty minutes. Maybe an hour.” To Berryman, he said. “We're going to have to speed this up.”

“We'll make it,” Berryman replied. Catching Easton's worried glance, he added, “But just barely.”

Easton nodded. He called to Bach. “Take over for me, please.” As she did so, he stepped away without explanation and crossed to Korie in the corner. Korie was sitting at his work station, thoughtfully reviewing the
Norway
's log.

“Commander?”

“Easton?” Korie replied without looking up.

“Just checking, sir—”

Korie understood. Part of any mission team's job was to monitor the mental state of its own members. Easton was still in shock over Hodel's death—he knew that the other team members were watching him closely, but he had to reassure
himself
that he was fine, so he went around from one shipmate to the next, making a pretense of checking on them—and letting them look him over again. If they hadn't all been wearing starsuits, they could have reached over and laid their hands on each other—comforting pats on each others' shoulders, or even pulled together for the temporary relief of a hug; but, failing that, the best they could do was look into each other's eyes and pretend they weren't crying inside. Korie understood what Easton was doing—he was walking around looking for reassurance that he was still functioning. He was hoping to be distracted, so the pain wouldn't come crashing in.

“I'm fine. Thanks for checking, I appreciate it,” Korie said, deliberately sidestepping the obvious. He needed Easton to hold together just a little while longer. He pointed at the display. “I'm just trying to make good use of the time while we wait—reviewing the operation here. I want to see what their mistake was. There's a lot of material to look through ...”

Easton nodded. But he remained where he was.

Korie looked at him. “Something else?”

“It wouldn't be so bad if it was just wavicles. But it's the worms that give me the willies. Being eaten alive ...?” Easton shuddered.

“Me too,” said Korie. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” said Easton in a tone that suggested yes.

“Y'know, what you did back there ... that was a hard thing to do. Not everybody would have done it.
You didn't abandon him
. What you did was merciful.”

Easton held up a hand. “I know all that, sir. I keep repeating it in my head, over and over and over. Like a mantra. It doesn't help.” He took a breath. “I want ... I want to get angry, sir. I want to get angry and break
something. I want to—what I'm saying is a sin in my church, sir—but this is what I'm feeling. I want to hurt someone—whoever's responsible for this. I want to kill someone. I want ... revenge.”

“I know,” said Korie. “I feel the same way. Mostly about Morthans.” For just an instant, he remembered the size of the bill he'd run up at Stardock—in the gym, beating up on Morthan androids. Until, finally, the doctor had ordered him to stop. Not because he was hurting himself, but because the androids were going psychotic. “Listen, there's nothing wrong with feeling what you're feeling. It's part of the process of grieving.”

Easton gave him a skeptical look.

“Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry about the jargon. The point is, there's nothing I can say or do, nothing anyone can say or do that's going to make it easier. You're going to feel what you're feeling—until you stop feeling it. The only thing I can tell you that helps—it's the only thing that helps me—is to go to the gym and punch something. As hard as you can. As much as you can. Over and over and over. Until you fall down exhausted and you don't have the strength to get up again. It doesn't make the feeling go away, but it puts you in control of how you express it, and that much at least is ... well, it's a start.”

“Hodel was my friend,” said Easton. As if that explained something.

“He was my friend too—” Korie started.

“No. You don't understand. I could talk to Hodel. Paul and I are bonded, and we like being bonded; it's a sense of security to have a partner. But some folks are uncomfortable with it. They come from places where it isn't allowed or it doesn't happen or it's programmed out of people, so they think it's wrong. But Hodel—it was nothing to him; it was like the color of our hair, it didn't matter. You don't know what it's like to walk down a corridor and have people look at you with pity or contempt or just ... distance, like you're not totally human. You don't know how refreshing it is to be treated like you're normal—like you're really part of the crew after all.”

Korie started to say something, but Easton interrupted him.

“No, it's all right, sir. I've already heard the speech about the irrationality and stupidity of prejudice. I've even given it a few times. I'm sure I know it better than you. Yeah, some people on the
Wolf
are stupid. But that doesn't make the hurt any less, does it? Tell me something—where do you go to get a license to be rude to other people? I want one of those. I want the license to say what I'm feeling too—no matter how rude or stupid or crude or insensitive it is.” He stopped himself, then
abruptly added, “I'm not hurting for Hodel as much as you think I am. I'm hurting for myself. Because of what I've lost. I know it's selfish ...” He stopped again, this time unable to continue.

Korie faced Easton. “I wish you'd said something before. I didn't know we had a problem. When this is all over, when we're back on the
Wolf
and everything is secured, will you come and talk to me?”

“Do you think it'll help? Do you think there's anything you can do?”

“I don't know. Let's talk about it.”

The two men studied each other. Inside their helmets, both their expressions were hard to read; the starsuits made it easy to stay detached. At last, Easton said, a little too quickly, “I've used up enough of your time. Thank you, sir.”

Easton crossed back to Berryman. Proximity to his partner made him feel safer. That was part of the bonding process. The need for closeness. The two men exchanged reassuring glances, but Berryman continued to work without interruption. He and Shibano were just sending another table aftward toward the airlock.

The other gurney held a young woman. She had been attractive once, but now she was pale, bruised and wracked with spasms. She was already wired up and waiting. Hoses and tubes snaked out from the undercarriage of the medtable, up and into the clamps on her arms and legs. She was having trouble breathing and Bach was waiting with her until Berryman could attend.

Easton stepped over and took the young woman's hand in his. He looked down at her and smiled comfortingly—a small atonement.