So might, say, Murray Leinster’s “Pocket Universes.” When I finish writing this column, I’m heading to my Kindle to see if the story is available there. Many many older stories, things have been out of print for more than 60 years are now showing up in electronic format. So who knows? Influence is going to spread. Classics will get revived. Old stories, too advanced or outre for their time, might become new classics.
It’s a great new world. As a reader, I find it overwhelming and marvelous all at the same time. I feel like that proverbial kid in the candy store. Only I don’t ever have to leave, and more candy is being delivered all the time.
It makes doing best-ofs and awards lists nearly impossible. But that’s a small price to pay for the wealth of great reading available to us now.
And I, for one, am quite pleased.
****
The Medic
Fox Mc Geever
If Rourke hadn't dived into the shell hole outside the First Bank of Taiwan the instant he saw the two dead marines sprawled behind that burned-out Bradley, the sniper's bullet would probably have taken his head off instead of whacking into his thigh.
He rolled into a ball and gripped his leg. A razor tooth. Had to be. The impact was just like the survivors said-a savage, intense bite burned the instant the bullet's engine started up.
The shock wave of an exploding shell broke over him like the hot breath of the devil himself, bringing with it all the sounds of hell-the explosions, the whoosh of rockets, and rattle of small arms fire.
He tore open his fatigues to examine the wound. Of course it was a razor tooth. The entry wound was too small, too damned precise to be anything else. And there was so little blood. Wasn't that the standing joke among the grunts? That the bullet's little motor mouth drank the blood as the razor tooth chewed its way through you.
"Razor tooth!" He shouted it aloud just to hear himself say it, just to make all this believable. A hot spasm of pain shot up his thigh when the razor tooth's engine cranked up and burrowed its way deeper into the muscle. At least it was only a leg wound. That gave him good odds, maybe an hour before it minced his thigh and went for his vitals. More than enough time for a medivac.
Another shell slammed into First Bank, sending a rain of concrete and glass cascading down around him. An intact coffee mug with a smiley on it landed inches from his face.
"Red zero to red leader!" Lieutenant Bieber's voice was loud and triumphant in Rourke's headset. "Captain! We've taken Ketagalan Cross."
"Switch to cell phone," Rourke hissed. He put his headset on hold and whipped out his phone. Moments later, Bieber's sweaty black face appeared on the LCD screen. His eyes were wide and staring.
"Captain, what's wrong?"
"I'm separated from B Company."
"You're hit."
"Razor tooth. Leg shot."
"Bastards!" Then after a short pause, the lieutenant added, "I'll send a team."
"No time. Blow the Kaimi flyover and dig in."
"But you?"
"Sniper knows I'm alive so he'll have moved on by now. And I've got a medic. I'm . . ." Rourke gritted his teeth when another hot spasm ripped through him. He knew that was only the breath of the dragon. The bite would come soon, once the razor tooth hit bone. "I'm promoting you acting CO. Keep communication to cell phone."
"Understood."
Rourke killed the call and immediately put a medivac request through to GHQ at Kaohsiung. Once his GPS tracker coordinates were confirmed, he shrugged off his backpack and flipped it over. He cursed aloud when he saw the blackened hunk of shrapnel buried in the medic's pouch. Brain juices were oozing out around the shrapnel and giving the Kevlar stitched canvas an oddly skin-like appearance.
For one long moment he just stared at the case, wondering what to do with it. Ever since these little miracles had been introduced a year ago, he was still trying to decide whether the genetically modified brains actually felt anything. The Ingencorp execs said they didn't. Many others disagreed. Some scientists even claimed the medics had a consciousness and they actually experienced the pain they siphoned from their hosts.
It didn't really matter. What was a brain grown in a jar compared to a real life flesh and blood person? Who cared? None of his guys did-especially not the ones taking the hits.
He tossed the backpack aside, dragged the nearest marine into the shell hole, and removed the marine's medic. The boy's eyes were still wide open with shock. They'd obviously been sheltering behind the Bradley when the sniper found them, and he guessed this one had taken the second hit.
He eased the boy's eyes closed and snapped off his dog tag. Once he laid the corpse out in the corner, he released the butterfly clips holding the medic's lid and yanked out the umbilical. The twin ranks of tiny attachment hooks glimmered like metal fangs when he peeled away the plastic cover from the attachment clip. An indicator light on the medic's control panel blinked orange. He pushed the clip hard against the back of his neck. The light turned red. Metal teeth dug into his flesh. In his mind's eye he saw the two microscopic tendrils emerging from the clip, their ultra sound sensors guiding them through the wad of muscle and tendons to penetrate his spinal cord and carotid artery.
The rush of epinephrine the medic administered immediately increased his pulse. Seconds later, the fire in his thigh eased away to a dull throbbing.
He lay back and wiped sweat from his brow. High above the charred, decapitated office blocks lining Shifen Road, black spirals of smoke curled into the sky. In the distance Taipei 101 stood defiantly like a dream tower instead of a financial center. A girlish scream rose up from somewhere off to this right. Chinese. Had to be. Only they could scream that long, that loud.
A trader missile detonated outside First Bank and sent a thick fog of dust billowing down the street that swallowed up the world, numbed the gunfire and crackle of flames, and turned the bedlam to something distant, something far, far away.
Content in this dirty cocoon, he laid his M9 pistol by his side and closed his eyes.
"What do you feel?" a voice asked.
Rourke snapped open his eyes and suddenly, insanely, thought the kid had said something. The dust was settling, layering everything in the shell hole in a fine, gray snow.
"What do you feel?" The voice was louder now, but soothing, like the voice of a priest comforting a mourner. It was coming through his headset. "Please answer my question."
"I feel . . ." Rourke snatched up the M9 and scanned the rim of the shell hole. "Who are you? Where are you?"
"I am your medic."
Rourke stiffened. A talking medic? Impossible. True, they said you'd feel some kind of mental connection, like part of your mind had been numbed. But hear something. Insane. Every time the DoD audited Ingencorp, the results were always the same. Ingencorp wasn't breaching its genetic development license in any way. The brains did what they were supposed to do: monitor injuries, provide emergency life support, and intercept pain signals in the spinal cord before redirecting them to their own pain receptors.
The medic's onboard computer controlled it.
They couldn't talk. They couldn't reason. They couldn't think.
It had to be something else, some shock trauma or side effect of whatever the medic was pumping into him. Either that, or Ingencorp had broken their license and modified the medics, added some automated pre-recorded talk application that enabled the onboard computer to comfort the wounded? If so, it was a true work of genius.
He sank back into the rubble and stared up at the sky. "What are you?" He choked back a laugh. This was madness, like talking to a toy.
"I have redirected your sacrifice. I have also connected an emergency intravenous feed and administered epinephrine to steady your blood pressure."
"Sacrifice. You mean my pain?"
"Pain? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
A pinprick of pain flared briefly in Rourke's temple, right where his migraines usually started. Using his wrist control pad, he flicked th
rough the headset channels. Nothing. Dead. The red indicator on the GPS was dead, too.
"What do you feel?"
Rourke sucked in a long, slow breath. "How do you think I feel?"
"My sensors detect a high level of chemical markers indicating stress. Please relax and answer my question."
Rourke stared at the medic's case. That certainly hadn't sounded like any automated program speaking. "Why do you want to know how I feel?"
"It is my duty."
Duty. Something in Rourke's mind amplified the word until it sounded loud and abrasive in his skull. The medic had said it so automatically, so passionately, it couldn't have come from any program. Surely he wasn't hearing the brain. No. It was something else, some onboard receiver relaying the voice of some distant controller.
"Who am I speaking to? Where are you based?"
"Please answer my question. Otherwise I must encourage you by ceasing the sacrifice relief."
The pain in Rourke's thigh grew into a savage, snapping animal. "What!"
"What do you feel?
The animal in Rourke's thigh bit hard and hot. "Hopeful! I feel hopeful."
The instant the animal settled, Rourke promised himself that, busted leg or not, he'd personally deal with whoever was on the other end of the receiver the moment he got back.
"State your name, rank, and serial number," the voice said.
"No. Wait. Who are you? What's your rank?"
"I am your medic. Beta version 3.70. Once I have gathered the basic information I will begin calibration of the new system."
"Impossible. You can't talk."
"Version 3.70 is developed for contact. Doctor Zealoto taught me."
Rourke cursed under his breath. Zealoto. He'd heard the name before. Wasn't he the ex-junkie genius who'd developed the medics for Ingencorp? Yes. A former major who'd lost an arm in Baghdad years ago. Said he'd come up with the idea because he never wanted anyone to get hooked on morphine again.
The medic said, "State your name, rank, and serial number."
Some primal instinct told Rourke it mightn't be wise to give his name. They'd given this medic to a grunt, a kid barely out of school who'd probably have answered anything without question. If Ingencorp were behind this obscenity, and they realized an officer was connected, then . . .
He fished the kid's dog tag from his pocket. "PFC Jake Hunter. SE1046374."
"Thank you, Jake."
The idea that he'd now assumed the identity of a dead kid whose mother was probably on her knees twenty-six hours a day praying for his safety, made Rourke's stomach turn. Bile burned his throat. He gulped a mouthful of warm water from his canteen and promptly threw it up.
"What is your opinion of the war, Jake?"
Rourke clenched his teeth when the animal stirred again. For several terrible moments he didn't know which was worse, the pain, or the idea that Zealoto was using a casualty to fine-tune his latest creation. It was sick. Really, really sick. Surely Zealoto knew he'd be called to account once the casualty got back. Surely he . . .
"Of course," a voice cried from the back of his mind. "But only if the casualty makes it."
Every muscle in Rourke's body froze.
"What is your opinion of . . ."
"I hate it. It's wrong. We have no business here."
The pain sank away.
"What do you feel toward your superiors?"
Rourke choked back an insane laugh. "I wish they were right here shitting in their pants." The weight of guilt in his mind eased, like he'd just given Jake Hunter a voice from beyond the grave.
"Thank you."
For the next few minutes the questions rolled smoothly and relentlessly. Was he hungry, thirsty, sick, or calm? Was basic training sufficient? Was the medic's voice adequately comforting? Had he made a will?
That last question made Rourke's chest tighten until it was difficult to breathe. "Should I have made a will?"
"I will now begin the calibration. The results will be analyzed with your medical records to provide invaluable research information toward the war effort."
The throbbing sparked up again in Rourke's leg.
"Which of the following words describes the sacrifice: bearable, high, or excruciating?"
"The will," Rourke hissed through gritted teeth. "Why ask about a will?"
The throbbing in his thigh turned to a hot burning, like someone had tapped open a vein and pumped in acid. His vision blurred. He slammed both fists into the ground. "The will! Should I have made a will?"
The ache in Rourke's temple flared up again, sharp and blinding.
"I am confused," the medic said. "Do you have a head injury? My sensors detect . . ."
"Yes, yes I have. Fix it."
The migraine sank away.
"Which of the following words . . ."
"Okay! Okay!" Rourke grasped the M9 tight and suddenly wanted to shoot something, anything. "I'll do a deal. An answer for an answer."
"Doctor Zealoto did not mention this. I must follow my instructions."
"No. Wait. Isn't your aim to gather information?"
"Correct."
"And the more you can gather, the happier Doctor Zealoto will be?"
"A rational assumption."
And now the medic's voice was no longer cold and neutral. Now Rourke thought he detected an underlying tone that could have been a trace of humanity buried deep within the words. "Then tell me if I should have made a will and I'll answer anything you like."
A short silence followed. "Yes. You should have made a will. The calibration will continue until your vital organs cease to function."
Hot bile flooded Rourke's mouth. He grabbed for the umbilical. The instant his fingers made contact with it, the attachment teeth flexed and bit deeper into his flesh.
The medic said, "If the contact is removed you will die immediately."
"A medivac is coming."
"I have negated your GPS signal and issued a separate evacuation order to my superior. I have also blocked any further communication through this headset. Doctor Zealoto's team will recover me once the area is secure."
Rourke's migraine flared up angrily, brutally. He grabbed his head in both hands.
"My sensors detect more cranial disturbance. I will relieve you." The ache faded. "I will now recom . . . recom . . . recommence the cal . . ."
For the next few moments it was like some great tussle was going on in Rourke's head. Every time the migraine faded, the medic's words wavered. In the midst of this confusion, that voice in the back of his mind was screaming that this was significant.
But how?
Was the migraine somehow overloading the medic? Had Zealoto's modifications to allow it a consciousness diverted resources away from its original purpose? It sounded crazy, but no crazier than a talking medic.
Once the migraine settled, the medic's voice returned loud and clear.
"I will now recommence the calibration sequence."
"Wait!"
"An answer for an answer. Wasn't that our deal?"
Rourke stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth and bit down hard. "Do it!"
This time when the fire was stoked, it flared right up through his chest.
"Which of the following . . ."
"Bearable," Rourke hissed. The word was now like a password, a life-giving thing. He slipped the phone from his pocket and tapped out a text message to Bieber.
GPS gone. Need medivac. Hurry.
The reply was instant.
Medivac in fifteen.
Rourke's heart sank. Fifteen minutes. It sounded more like a life sentence.
"Your turn, Jake."
The tone of the words shocked Rourke back to reality. The medic had said them casually, almost playfully, like the questions were stimulating it. He said, "Do you have a name?"
"Doctor Zealoto called me Mychild."
"Mychild. A nice name. An honest name. Do you feel sacrifice, Mychild?"
"My receptors are currently experi
encing an excruciating level of sacrifice."
Rourke went cold. So they did feel. They did suffer. The threads of hatred knotted through his brain loosened slightly. "Can't you take something, morphine?"
"Morphine? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
"It's . . ." Rourke cursed Zealoto with all his might. Of course it didn't know what morphine was. Morphine was Zealoto's enemy. Besides, how could it analyze all those chemical markers if it was doped up? It couldn't analyze anything. Zealoto was sacrificing this thing just as callously as he was sacrificing the test subject. Had Hunter been picked randomly? Or was it more sinister, was he actually chosen?
And how many other Beta 3.70s were out there gathering calibration information right now?
"How does the sacrifice affect you, Mychild?"
"It interferes with my thought process. Is this what is supposed to happen?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It is our survival mechanism. Do you know why you feel it?" Rourke stared at the medic and suddenly, inexplicably, imagined he was looking at a wounded dog he'd just hit with his car.
"Doctor Zealoto said it was my duty. He said he would relieve me of my duty when the calibration was finished."
Struck by this cool, innocent response, Rourke struggled to reply. What was this thing feeling right now? How could it bear so much pain and still keep talking?
"Did he not . . ." His words were drowned out as two F-32s shot past overhead, the scream of their engines chasing them like angry demons. The world blurred as his hip turned to fire.
"Which of the following . . ."
"Bearable!" Rourke sucked in a deep breath and held it until the fire subsided. "Isn't it your duty to take sacrifice, not inflict it on your comrades?"
"Comrade? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
"I am your comrade. We're on the same side."
"Doctor Zealoto's instructions cannot be overridden."
Rourke spat out a mouthful of pasty saliva. Maybe he should try and dig the razor tooth out himself. But how? Without pain, he had no idea where it was. All he knew was that it was somewhere around his upper femur. The constant, rattly vibration of the engine was traveling up along his bones and into his skull like some mocking, indecipherable code.
Grantville Gazette 35 gg-35 Page 28