Angeleyes - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Five seven niner six five four one. M Five with the Second Gen upgrade. My training company was . . .”

  Someone on the phone said, “Yeah, that’s her. Screwy spelling on her name.”

  I didn’t recognize them, but once I was in view he said, “I was in Fourth Regiment Personnel Section. I remember seeing you, and your name is unique.”

  “Thanks,” I said, sounding stupid. What else should I say?

  LT Broud said, “Welcome aboard, Medic.”

  I was on the next lift over.

  The ‘vator rattled through the gangway. It sounded a bit rough, and was rather dark. I wondered about maintenance. But, as long as it lasted until I reached the airlock, it wasn’t my problem.

  Once aboard it was almost like training again. They towed me to a bunk room and assigned me a rack. I had to share it with another specialist on the opposite shift. I had just enough room to stow both bags and my weapon. I got one shirt to wear over my T shirt, that had a generic rank and no qual badge. I was assigned to two sections—Galley and Infirmary.

  The Galley Chief was a sweet old lady. Warrant Officer Haskins looked about forty F-years, but could be older.

  “Good to meet you, Specialist Kaneshiro. Have you worked Galley before?”

  “I’ve spaced most of the last seven years. I’ve done my share.”

  “Oh, good. I’m a stickler on sanitation, and on keeping food prep clean and ingredients refrigerated. Spacers need to be healthy to fight.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I agree.”

  “Then I’ll have you help out with support and cleaning. There isn’t enough of that. We’re so busy slinging hash we can’t stay on it.”

  It wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary. I said, “I can wash dishes and scrub decks.”

  “Excellent. Never let anyone tell you that’s not a critical war skill.”

  I knew it was. It wouldn’t be a tasking aboard ship if it wasn’t necessary.

  We pulled out of station a couple of divs later, and they ripped serious G heading for the Jump Point. After ten segs, I wondered if they were going to boost the whole way, but then they dropped to emgee, then resumed Grainne standard, G, more or less. It varied a little. I wasn’t sure that was of any use for evasion, but maybe it would help mask their transfer time. Or maybe they were trying to cut through before any Sol ship could let them know we were coming.

  It was entirely possible we’d break through, get nuked, and be a cloud of vapor. This was a warship, we were at war, and I was now a combatant. It was too late to consider if I’d made the right choice, but unless I wanted to be a lone assassin, there wasn’t much else I could do. I had no training for that and wouldn’t know where to start.

  They did have sufficient cooks, but there was a lot of cleaning to be done. They’d been shorthanded on galley and services help when they departed, and full battle crewing plus overmanning had hurt them. I scrubbed grease and dust from filters and ducts, assisted in linen and laundry, and cleaned parts in the maintenance racks in the boat bays. They were using equipment that fast.

  At the end of the shift, I reported directly to Infirmary, after I found it.

  “Kaneshiro?” the section chief, Lieutenant Doctor Udal asked.

  “Yes, Doctor,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ve got you as medic and recspec. What is your identifier?”

  “M Four Infirmary Medic, Specialist, Rate Four. I have current civilian certs for CPR, Airway, Trauma and Vacuum.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that, and I hope we don’t need you. We do training every shift, just in case, and we get a lot of minor dings with this many people and running all out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “RecSpec?” he asked.

  “Freelance, but I can do it. I volunteered.”

  “Okay. That’s still a skill, you realize.”

  “Yup . . . sir,” I said. I didn’t want to discuss my sexual techniques with him, but that wasn’t his concern.

  “The summary: Listen for any emotional issues that might need followup, or any tendencies to violence, as opposed to fantasy ideals. You’re not required to serve anyone you don’t want to.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “I take it you need me?”

  “Yes. The crew are young, stressed and facing combat in less than a week. It’s sex or drugs or fistfights. We’d prefer they were having sex.”

  “I’ll do what I can, sir,” I assured him.

  When I was done with my shift of scrubbing the next day, I checked in at the infirmary and demonstrated some techniques for training and got quizzed, to convince them I was capable in an emergency.

  Warrant leader Dunstan, second in charge, asked me, “A spacer is brought in from explosive decompression with vacuum trauma. He is not wearing a mask or V-suit. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy with swollen lids. He clutches at his ears and gurgles when he tries to talk. There is no pressure containment module available.”

  “I listen to his lungs for any bubbling sounds. If they’re bubbling, I grab an emergency oxidizer, and use the lowest vein and artery on his left hand—”

  “Why lowest?”

  “Because if there’s trauma I can always move higher up the limb. I don’t want to damage IV sites he might need later.”

  “Hmm. Good point. Go on.”

  “I check the monitor to get at least seventy percent saturation. If he’s conscious, I have him work his jaw and use sinus compression to relieve pressure imbalance on his tympani. I apply gauze bandages with an optical saline soak to his closed eyes, bandage loosely, and offer non-narcotic analgesic. I log for the pulmonary surgeon to be ready for reconstruction.”

  It took two divs of hard questions, but they agreed I was trained and signed me off.

  Then I cleaned up and pulled the rest of my shift as a social companion, before I was going to try for two divs rest then back to the galley.

  I’m told RecSpec work often involves massage, chat, and other things nonsexual as well. With seven times as many men as women in the Forces, a lot of males wanted a girl to hang with as much as sex. That didn’t happen on my rotation.

  Combat had the crew stressed, and they really needed to release tension. They had three women and one man already in the department, and they were tired, the crew backed up, and I was a welcome addition. I got more response from the gay women, actually.

  The men were easy; they aren’t nearly as picky regarding sex, I’m comfortable with it, and these were soldiers. They were all clean, healthy, and in good shape. It was bit tiring physically, but not a chore. Naturally, they wanted mouthjobs. Whether straight or gay, men want mouthjobs. I kept a drink handy to wash the taste out. I love giving head, but you can have too much of a good thing in a hurry.

  The first one came in, and seemed relieved to actually find a person, not a simulant. He visibly relaxed, and I did in fact massage his shoulders.

  “Oh, thank you,” he said.

  “You’re tense. Long shift?”

  “Hard shift,” he said.

  I helped him peel out of his shipsuit and he was already stiff.

  “I get the idea,” I said, as I took him in hand. He arched and stretched and I went to work. I made sure not to rush, so he got some emotional release as well as physical. His hands were in my hair and on my back, and I hoped a few of them would want to fuck. I was going to need some stress relief myself.

  He came so hard his heels drummed on the couch. I grinned at that. I knew I was good, but that was high praise.

  I managed five of them in a row the third day. I was proud of myself. One of the other women handled nine. I have no idea how. My jaw would be cramped by then.

  I worked out a routine of some massage, small talk, a big show of putting on my lips or peeling out of brief, and running them hard. I got enough for myself, and I managed to help them with the strain.

  I hadn’t done much with women since I was an ado. The mechanics weren’t hard—I can rub and lick and work on the feedback I
receive, but I can’t read them the way I can read men. It was serious work. I apparently did a good job, because even some of the women who didn’t swing gave me a whirl at the growing suggestion of their friends. The one man just couldn’t keep up with fifty women. We had to take up some of the slack.

  Apparently, quite a few women are gay for the flight. They’d rather sit down and chat with another woman than a man, and as long as they have good toys and company, they’re more comfortable with a female. They might have husbands or manfriends at home, but aboard ship, they wanted girltalk and release.

  One came in with three toys, had me plug her in, wrap her in an embrace, and just nuzzle her neck with my nipples rubbing against her shoulders. She wanted human touch. The machines were industrial. I could feel them myself. I gripped her breasts and muttered and breathed on her neck and she rode herself into oblivion.

  The next one was barely adult, only a Spacer 2. She still had a bobbed haircut from RT, looked really slender and awkward. Her hair was glossy black, her eyes dark blue and very wide. She insisted on sharing fingers and lots of eye contact. That was intense and a bit too personal. I could see her reactions in her pupils. I squinted now and then, and did my best to let her see my eyes in between, but it felt a lot more intimate than just release. She was pretty good with her fingers, too, and kept licking them for spit, and apparently liked how I taste. It would have been okay, except I didn’t get her name and knew nothing about her. It was too intimate for work. But I did orgasm, tight around her slim hand and leaning on her shoulder.

  There was a fringe benefit. They tipped me. It wasn’t as if most of them would be able to spend the money, but I might. I accepted politely and stowed it deep in my bag.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was a long six days to the jump point, even with a split shift and lots of work. Off shift, I had to log in with Finance and Personnel, so I might eventually get paid for this, if we survived and the war resolved.

  Yes, six days. They apparently took a bit of a detour to confuse things. I guess it could work either way. Rush through, hope to beat their response. Take your time, wait for them to get bored and not know the exact schedule.

  The closer we got to jump, the tenser everyone got. We’d certainly make it through. It was almost impossible anything would hit us right away. Speed of light lag and safe arming distance would ensure that. We’d have at least 90 seconds after transit. After that . . .

  I wasn’t sure if I wished I knew more about fire control, or was glad I didn’t. The entire helm, astro, fire control and command crew was in the hole as we neared Jump. They were ready to toss radiant death at anything on the home side. We might at least take a ship with us. If so, it would be a good trade. I hoped there was nothing there, but I realized we had to kill people to win.

  Churchill was named after an old military hero, and he and we had the nickname Mad Jack. I figured we were going to earn that name.

  “All hands! All hands! Secure for jump transit,” came through the intercom and my phone. I got to the bunk. I was going to be sharing it. We hot bunked between shifts, but we all needed support for the jump.

  My bunkmate, whom I almost never saw, was an electronics tech first class. Cally Birtek. She was already strapped in.

  “Hey,” I said as I climbed up.

  “Hey.”

  “Can you scoot another fifteen centimeters?”

  “Yeah.” She wiggled over, loosened her harness, and I got onto the bunk except for one shoulder that hung off. I had bungee cords for my legs, attached to her harness and the bunk frame, from my belt to the harness and frame, and around my shoulders and to harness and frame. I hoped they were strong. I hoped they weren’t needed.

  “Scared?” she asked quietly. I think she was eleven G-years, twelve tops.

  “Yes,” I said. “Jump always sucks. This is worse.”

  I felt her fingers near mine, clutching, and we gripped hands and held on.

  There was a countdown on the system screen above us, in the bottom of the third bunk in the stack. It was a good thing I was used to living in bunkies. This had even less space.

  I wished for some Sparkle, some red wine, and a buzz patch. I thought we were evasive maneuvering, but it was just my head spinning in panic.

  Command announced, “Transit in three zero seconds . . . two zero seconds . . . one zero seconds . . . five, four, three . . .”

  I closed my eyes even though there was nothing to see.

  The universe turned inside out and we were in Freehold space.

  Then I was crushed into the couch. We were at full thrust, pulling possibly six G. I was thrown into Birtek, then she into me and I rolled halfway out, hanging by the bungees as they cut into my flesh. They held, but then I was thrown up and bounced off the rack above back onto the bunk. I had a welt over my right eye. I threw my other arm over her in a hug just so I could stay in place.

  Then the Gs went up even more.

  The frame rumbled from that level of boost, and I wondered how hard we were driving. I was gasping for breath and had a throbbing headache from the acceleration.

  Then something punched me all over. Everything shook and there was a loud bang, lots of creaks and whining buzzes, then nothing.

  Emgee, and floating, then thrust resumed.

  “All hands, all hands. Secure from G couches. Alarm red, we are in combat. Battle stations, battle stations, stand ready to secure at duty section.”

  She clutched at her releases with shaking hands. I managed to unloop the bungies and then helped her with her leg restraints. That done, I rolled out to the deck, and almost got boots in the head from the large chick above us.

  I was a ground medic. I was a civilian spacer. Crew response in a combat ship is nothing like a cargo hauler. The passages were packed, all the airlock doors open. If we got hit now we were all dead.

  I made it through crowds and up the powered ladder to the infirmary.

  We had casualties.

  Lieutenant Udal said, “Kaneshiro, triage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’d served mostly peacetime, then went to space. I’d dealt with injuries from loaders, slammed hatches, a couple of fistfights and some industrial accidents, and one negligent gunshot wound. This wasn’t like that.

  It was bad. The nearest guy was supported by a buddy, and coughed in a horrid rasp. His face was flushed and bruised, and I knew he’d hit hard vacuum. We could treat that, but it would have to be soon. He wouldn’t be on duty for some time. He sounded ugly, and I didn’t want to listen to that awful sound. It was creepy.

  “Specialty?” I asked his buddy.

  “He’s reactor and fuel management.”

  I read my phone, that told me there were four of those. Unless the others were in here, he wasn’t yet critical.

  Thrust tapered off and we were in free flight. That made it different to work. Not necessarily harder, but it required free flight maneuvering.

  “Vacuum trauma. Lungs. Number Three.” I tagged him and turned to the next, hoping I hadn’t sentenced him to die.

  There’s four considerations on the scale. How critical is this person’s specialty and can they be replaced? How many resources will be required to save them? What are their odds of recovery? How soon do they need treatment for it to matter? Someone who can’t be saved is low, but someone with only superficial wounds is lower. Someone in a critical specialty with minor trauma gets treated ahead of someone with severe injuries who isn’t.

  The next one was a mass of bruises and contusions. He’d been slammed into a bulkhead.

  “What’s your specialty?” I asked.

  “Engines.”

  There were two others in his specialty, but he was certainly savable. I tagged him as a Four. He wasn’t going to die.

  The third had the same buddy as the first one. She was convulsing. That was so grotesque I looked away.

  I looked at the buddy.

  He said, “I think she took a radiation hit. She was farth
est stern.”

  I marked her a five. We probably couldn’t do anything.

  We had thirty-seven casualties. All of mine got bumped up a level, and I was glad. They were some of the worst, but the better ones were easier to address.

  Once that was done, Warrant Dunstan said, “Kaneshiro, deal with the superficials, please.”

  “Will do.”

  I grabbed spray, bandages, topical and injectable analgesic and got to work. First I dosed the bump on my own eyebrow. The sting had turned to a throb that distracted me.

  My first patient needed sutures in a pressure cut. One did fine with staples. Several just needed bandages and spray. Well, not “just.” One guy had a bruise across the entire back of his scalp. I was amazed he didn’t have a concussion, but he seemed fine.

  I told him, “Have them check your skull later. Report any tingles, or any functional problems at all. You’re good to return to duty, conditionally.”

  “Thanks, Specialist,” he said.

  I recognized him. The first guy I’d sucked off last week. He was a lot less tense now. He was wobbly. I wasn’t sure he recognized me back.

  I didn’t go in for any galley work. I stayed and dealt with minor injuries, massive contusions and lots of pain. I sprayed and injected and handed over pill scrips as fast as I could, while clinging to a saddle with my knees.

  The guy with the lung damage was stabilized into a respiratory support unit. The girl with radiation burns wasn’t going to make it. They doped her up so she wouldn’t feel anything, and gave her a bed. I felt ill myself. She’d been cute, and young, and now she was half cooked.

  They posted a report on the battle. Actually, they’d posted it a half div before, but I’d been too busy to read it. We’d come through, and there were two UN ships waiting, one capital, one chaser. But we’d come through at velocity, then nailed it again. There was no way they’d intercept. They did have time for one volley of a lot of torpedoes. We’d caught a near miss with one. That wave front overloaded the reactor. I guess radiation adds to the existing radiation if it gets through the shield, sort of like throwing fuel on a fire. Or I may be completely wrong. I don’t know nuke stuff. From that we had the one casualty who was dying, and four others, not as severe.