by Jim C. Hines
Canon D. Major (Krakau diplomat): We understand your instinctive drive to expand and colonize. There is room enough for all in the vast ocean of space. Why waste your resources attacking other species?
Wings of Silver (Prodryan warrior): Because of our assholes.
Major: . . .
Farkunwinkubar (Glacidae diplomat): I beg your pardons?
Final Countdown (Krakau technician): Apologies, honored delegates. Our translation software is having difficulties with the Prodryan battle dialect. I believe the problem should now be corrected.
Major: Thank you. Wings of Silver, could you please repeat your reasons for these ongoing attacks?
Wings of Silver: Because we are assholes.
Major: Dammit, Countdown!
After further troubleshooting and berating of Technician Countdown, it was determined that the second translation was in fact accurate. The Prodryan system of what we might call “ethics” is largely instinctual. The strongest drive is for species expansion and survival at all costs. The Prodryan mindset automatically classifies all other life-forms into either potential resources (food) or potential threats.
Prodryans are aware of their own nature, and openly acknowledge their selfishness, lack of empathy, and determination to destroy anyone and anything they deem dangerous or not of use to the Prodryan race.
In short, Wings of Silver was correct. Prodryans are a race of assholes who have warred against the galaxy for more than a century.
THE PRODRYANS MANAGED ONE lucky shot before a combination of missiles and plasma beams from the Pufferfish tore their ship apart.
Mops’ screen lit up with the detailed damage assessment. The Prodryan A-gun had pierced the hull on deck C, near the bow of the ship. From the look of things, it had punched through several internal walls and floors before exiting deck F.
The ship had automatically plugged the holes in the hull. Engineering would take care of reinforcing and repairing those. Mops was more concerned with the internal injuries. The instant Battle Captain Cervantes signaled the all-clear and the lights returned to their normal colors, she was out of her seat and heading for the nearest lift, dragging Wolf behind her. “Monroe, meet me on deck E, section four. Doc, was anyone hurt?”
“No injuries reported yet.”
“Good. Show me the air readings from the affected decks.” By the time the lift deposited her and Wolf on deck E, she was frowning.
Monroe greeted them both with a pop of his chewing gum. The gum was a holdover from his days in the infantry, and Mops didn’t think she’d ever seen him without a piece. The man could walk naked into a sanishower and emerge blowing a bubble of whatever flavor he’d gotten his hands on lately. The Krakau who manufactured the stuff claimed to perfectly reproduce the tastes of old human foods, though it was impossible to know for certain. From the smell, he was currently chewing one of his favorites: pepperoni pizza.
“I hear there are still Prodryans on the freighter,” he said in greeting.
Mops didn’t bother to ask how he knew. Mops’ connection to ship’s systems through Doc was supposed to be instantaneous, but Monroe’s gossip network with his infantry buddies always seemed just a little faster. “Cervantes is sending troops over on a pair of shuttles to clean them out.”
Monroe’s ragged white hair was cut short on the left, but hung to shoulder length on the right, covering the worst of the scar tissue where his ear used to be.
He’d left the infantry two years ago, following extensive reconstructive surgery. Krakau surgeons had rebuilt his right arm and part of his torso, then put him in a coma for a month-long nap in a medigel bed to let his body finish healing. They’d never managed to restore his sense of balance. Rumor had it a gyroscope was mounted in place of his right eardrum, helping him avoid toppling over. The prosthetic arm looked mostly human, but with too-smooth, bleach-white “skin.”
Cleaning and welding tools weighed down his harness, clanking with each step. He also carried a full SHS kit slung over his right shoulder.
“Don’t you miss it?” asked Wolf. “Being part of those infantry missions?”
“Hell, no. I’ll take cleaning this ship over getting shot, impaled, and blown up.” There was a wistfulness to his words, though. From what Mops knew, that yearning wasn’t for combat, but for the companionship of his fellow infantry troops.
“Air readings suggest we’ve got a cracked waste line,” said Mops. “Doesn’t look like a direct hit, but the shock wave from that A-gun rattled half the deck.”
Her monocle alerted her to an approaching figure around the bend: Private Anna May Wong, from Infantry Unit Seven. Wong was relatively new to the Pufferfish. He staggered into view and leaned hard against the wall.
“You all right, Private?” asked Mops.
He nodded. “I got lucky. If I’d been any closer to the impact point, you’d be scrubbing me off the walls.”
“Thanks for saving us the extra work,” Monroe said dryly. “Do you need help getting to Medical?”
Wong waved a hand. “I’m all right.”
Mops and Monroe locked eyes. “Turn to your left, Private,” said Mops. “Doc, send Wong an image of what I’m seeing.”
“Relaying to Private Wong’s monocle.”
Wong whistled a Krakau curse, something about tentacle incest. A saucer-sized shard of metal protruded from his back, just below the rib cage. Black blood crusted around the wound. “Did I say I was lucky? I’d like to change my answer, sir.”
“Hold still.” Mops grabbed a canister of multipurpose sealant from her harness and applied a thin line around the base of the wound. The clear gel expanded quickly, turning bright orange as it hardened. “That’ll keep the metal from moving and doing any more damage. Wouldn’t want you out of commission just when things are getting serious with Suárez.”
He blushed hard. “You know about that?”
“I was swapping out air filters on observation deck E the other day.”
He reddened further. “We . . . didn’t know anyone else was there.”
“I assumed as much. You were pretty preoccupied.”
“Medical, we need a stretcher,” said Monroe.
“I can walk,” Wong protested.
“And if you want to keep that ability, you’ll shut up and wait for the stretcher.” Mops folded her arms, looking up at Wong and silently daring him to argue. “Humans are tough. We’re not indestructible. And we don’t know how close that thing is to your spine.”
Wong sighed. “Yes, sir.”
“Was anyone else around when the hull was breached?” asked Monroe.
“Not that I saw. I would have noticed this time.”
“Good,” said Mops. “Wolf, go on ahead and find that waste leak. We’ll be along as soon as we get Wong on his way.”
“First battle scar?” asked Monroe, gesturing toward the shrapnel.
“No, sir.” Wong touched his left arm. “Lost a chunk of bicep and shoulder two years back. Peacekeeping mission on Cetus 4. And I had three toes replaced after basic training. Frostbite.”
“Antarctica?” asked Mops, watching Wong closely. His eyes kept drifting, and his skin was paler than usual.
“That’s right, sir.”
Mops chuckled. “Was Scheherazade supervising the A&O after your rebirth?”
“Worst Awakening and Orientation Officer ever.” Adopting a stiff tone, Wong said, “‘It is customary for humans to panic when they wake up covered in fish and slime, but panic is nonproductive. Be still and wait for a technician to assist you. Do not harm the cutis fish in your tank. They consume only dead skin cells, body hair, and other human waste.’”
His intonation was perfect. Mops nodded and said, “Her first words to our crèche were ‘Humans, cease all fear and confusion immediately!’ Because a meter-tall alien squid waving her limbs and shouting at yo
u through the translator is so reassuring in your first moments as a sentient being.”
“I woke up with a fish halfway up my nose.” Wong rubbed absently at his nostril. “They say that’s where the best-tasting hair is, if you’re a cutis fish.”
Mops stepped aside to make room as the medics arrived, pushing a humming maglev stretcher. A six-year nursing veteran named Fred Rogers quickly checked Wong’s injury, then helped him lie facedown on the hovering stretcher. Rogers pressed a button on the stretcher rail to activate the built-in scanners.
“Chipped vertebrae and a few perforated organs,” he said, giving Wong a reassuring smile. “We’ll get those glued back together in no time.”
For all that they’d lost to the plague, there were advantages to what humans had become. Feral humans were all but impossible to kill, and the Krakau had kept that resilience when they began administrating their cure. Earth Mercenary Corps soldiers could shake off anything short of damage directly to the brain or spine. Wong should be up and about again within a day.
Once they were out of earshot, Mops turned to Monroe. “Why didn’t Wong’s uniform register a puncture that size?”
“Maybe it did. You saw his face. He was slipping into shock. If he’d gotten worse . . .”
It was rare for injury and shock to trigger a feral response, but not unheard of. Mops held up her sealant canister. “Then I trust you’d have held him in place long enough for me to glue his ass to the wall.”
She returned the canister to her harness and checked Wolf’s status on her monocle. According to Doc, Wolf had stopped twenty meters ahead. By the time they arrived, she’d marked several sections of wall panel for removal.
“Cracked waste line, like you guessed,” said Wolf.
The brief depressurization would have turned the line’s contents into a geyser of sewage steam. The changes in temperature and pressure could have further damaged the line, meaning there was a good chance the mess had spread everywhere.
Wolf started to unseal the seam on the first wall panel.
“Hold up.” Mops wrinkled her nose. She was regrettably familiar with the smells of shipboard waste. “Doc, how close are we to Grom’s quarters?”
“Fourteen meters.” An arrow appeared on her monocle, pointing the way.
“Problem?” asked Monroe.
“Grom’s excreting eggs. Not only is our leak officially toxic, it’s potentially corrosive. Doc, tell Kumar to get up here. And I need the emergency channel.” Mops waited for the AI to acknowledge. “This is Lieutenant Adamopoulos from SHS. Sections three through five of deck E are under immediate quarantine.”
“You’re calling a quarantine?” asked Wolf.
“Normally, unfertilized Glacidae eggs are inert, but who knows what the shock of that A-gun did. If the eggs break down and interact with the air, they can emit a form of gaseous antifreeze. It won’t hurt a Glacidae, but one whiff can crystallize human mucus membranes. Nasty stuff. Get your hood up, then start setting up the quarantine curtain at the end of section five.”
Wolf opened her uniform collar to pull out a thin, transparent hood. She tugged the hood over her head and pulled a small tab along the edge, sealing the front. The hood inflated and stiffened into a makeshift helmet.
Mops did the same, expecting Monroe to follow suit. He reached for his collar with his left hand . . . whereupon his right hand balled into a fist and punched him in the face.
“Dammit, Arm!” He glared at the artificial limb.
The AI that helped control Monroe’s arm was significantly more primitive than Doc. As Doc himself had once put it, it was the difference between a modern cruiser and an old Earth paddleboat. A leaky paddleboat. Probably starting to rot.
Most of the time, Monroe’s prosthetic AI could anticipate and assist him. It was also programmed to respond to Monroe’s verbal commands. But every once in a while, the arm got confused.
“Oh, you’re sorry, are you?” Monroe snarled. Presumably the AI had relayed an apology through his monocle. “You know, it’s not too late to replace you with an old-fashioned hook.”
“You all right?” asked Mops.
He finished with his hood, using his left hand only, then bent to seal the bottom of his pants to his boots. “I’ve had worse.”
Wolf’s face brightened. “Like what?”
“Let’s just say you should never use the head with a newly upgraded artificial limb.”
Mops pulled her gloves from her back pocket. They sealed automatically to her sleeves. A new readout on her monocle showed her suit’s air circulators were working properly, and everything was airtight. EMC uniforms wouldn’t hold up to a long-term spacewalk, but they were more than adequate for this kind of biohazard work.
Doc pinged to let her know Wolf’s and Monroe’s suits were sealed as well. She rotated her arms to loosen her shoulders. “Who’s ready to start sponging up alien excrement?”
Sponging was a figure of speech. They’d start with the portable vacuum units from Monroe’s maintenance kit, saving as much raw biomaterial as possible. Everything they collected would be recycled and reprocessed into fertilizer for the greenhouses or next week’s meal rations.
She generally tried not to think about that last part.
They were an hour and a half into the job when a green all-crew alert starburst flashed on Mops’ monocle.
“This is Commander Danube. I’m ordering level one biohazard precautions effective immediately. Nonessential personnel should remain in their quarters. Anyone who has been in direct contact with infantry units three and five will report to Medical for quarantine.”
Her team stopped working. Monroe lowered the vacuum rod he’d been using. “Units three and five were the teams assigned to clear the Nusuran freighter.”
Mops turned automatically to Kumar, whose eyes were wide behind the transparent shell of his hood.
“Relax. You’re fine,” Mops said to forestall his inevitable panic. Considering human beings were immune to most diseases, Technician Sanjeev Kumar’s paranoia about germs made as much sense as a hydrophobic Krakau. Though it did mean he was the most thorough and efficient cleaner on the team. “We’ve been in sealed suits since we started working.”
“Why didn’t Captain Brandenburg make the announcement?” asked Kumar.
“Maybe she isn’t fully awake from the A-ring jump yet. Focus on the job, Technician.” Mops pointed to the open wall sections and the array of pipes and conduit running through the skeletal metal support beams. “I want this mess cleaned up double-time. If we have a biohazard on the ship, we’ll have more work coming our way soon.”
She watched Kumar until he nodded and got back to work. He’d been on the SHS team for six years, and—unlike Wolf—he’d never wanted anything else. He had the build of a soldier: tall, broad, and muscular. His brown hair was eternally unkempt, sticking out in all directions like the short tangles were trying to escape from his scalp.
She stepped back to assess their progress. They’d finished the bulk of the job. Two sealed, waist-high canisters of recovered mostly-human waste attested to that. Temporary clamps locked the broken pipes, and Kumar had rigged a half-pressure bypass line to keep things from getting further backed up.
Wolf had soaked the interior of the walls with a chemical bath that would break down any remaining organic matter, and Monroe was making good progress vacuuming up the resultant sludge. Next up was hitting every nook and crevice with the microwave sterilizer. Even at their best speed, they were looking at another hour, minimum.
“Doc, how bad is it?” she whispered.
“I’m locked out of command-level discussions, but Medical has admitted thirty-one people for examination and quarantine. Three lifts and one-point-eight kilometers of internal corridors are sealed off, awaiting medical sterilization.”
“Thirty-one . . . that’s almost a sixt
h of the crew.”
“I’m a computer. I’m aware of the math.”
“Don’t get smart with me, you glorified contact lens. Any word on what kind of contagion we’re looking at?”
“Nothing official. It started after the first team returned from the freighter, so there’s a good chance it was contracted there. From the speed it’s been spreading, I suspect it’s airborne.”
“Any chance it could penetrate a sealed suit?”
“Doubtful.”
“Then how did our troops get infected? They’d have been suited up, and would have gone through decon when they got back to the Pufferfish.”
“Human error is most likely to blame. Statistically, you humans fail far more frequently than your equipment.”
“Bite me.” She wanted to argue the point, but Doc would no doubt have plenty of data to back his claim. Data he’d be only too happy to highlight on Mops’ monocle. “Keep an eye on the team’s suit integrity. If a single seam even thinks about springing a leak, I want to know.”
“Hey!” Wolf’s shout made the rest of the team jump. Wolf lowered her sterilizer, a pistol-like device with an oversized metal disk for the barrel. “We’re working here. You’ve got to go around.”
Behind the clear quarantine curtain, a young, heavyset woman stumbled closer. Mops’ monocle identified PFC Schulz, a heavy gunner from Infantry Unit Two. She gave no sign of hearing Wolf’s instructions.
“Doc, give me a direct line to Schulz.” Mops stepped toward the curtain. “This is Lieutenant Adamopoulos. Are you all right, Charlie?”
Schulz pressed her hands against the curtain. The material stretched and tented against her fingers.
The silence behind Mops told her the rest of her team had stopped working to watch.
“We’ve got more company farther up the corridor, around the bend. They’re coming this way.”
“Who?”
Doc tagged four more crew members on her monocle: Price, Smith, Omáğažu, and Holmes. Beyond the curved wall, their silhouettes moved unsteadily toward Schulz, who had begun to claw at the edge of the curtain.