Generation Warriors

by Anne McCaffrey

  She treated herself to a good meal at a cafe that occupied the space where, years before, she'd known a bar. The music now had a different sound, lots of chiming bells and some low woodwind behind a female trio. Back in her room, she fell asleep easily and woke without concern.

  Level seven of Concourse B still sported the apricot striped walls that made Lunzie feel she had fallen into a layered dessert. Various names had been tried for this section, from Exotic Epidemiology to Nonstandard Colonial Medical Assistance. None had stuck; everyone called it (and still called it, she'd found out) the Oddball Corps. Its official designation, at the moment, was Variant Medical Concerns Analysis Division . . . not that anyone used it.

  Lunzie presented her credentials at the front desk. Instead of the directions she expected, she heard a cheerful voice yelling down the corridor a moment later.

  "Lunzie! The legendary Lunzie!" A big bearded man grinned as he advanced, his hands outstretched. She searched her memory and came up with nothing. Who was this? He went on. "We heard you were coming. Forty-three years, in this last coldsleep? And that makes how much altogether? We've got a lot of research we can do on you." His face fell slightly and he peered more closely at her, "You do remember me, don't you?"

  She was about to say no, when a flicker of memory gave her the face of an enthusiastic teenager touring a hospital with a class. Now where had that been? She couldn't quite say . . . but he had been the most persistently curious in his group, asking questions long after his companions (and even his instructors) were bored. He had been pried loose only by the fifth reminder that their transport was leaving . . . now. She had no idea what his name was.

  "You were younger," she said slowly, giving herself time to think. "I don't remember that beard."

  His hands touched it. "Oh . . . yes. It does make a difference, I suppose. And it's been over forty years for you, even if most of that wasn't real time. I mean waketime. I was just so glad to see your name come up on the boards. I suppose you never knew that it was that hospital tour that got me into medicine, and beyond that into the Oddballs—"

  "I'm glad," she said. What was his name? He had worn a big square nameplate that day; she could remember that it was green with black lettering, but not what the name was.

  "Jerik," he said now, relieving her of that anxiety. "Doctor Jerik now, but Jerik to you, of course. I'm an epidemiologist, currently stranded in Admin because my boss is on leave."

  He had the collar pin of an honor graduate and the second tiny chip of diamond which meant he was also an Adept, It was not something to speak of, but it meant he was not just out here blathering away for nothing. His pose of idle chatter and innocent enthusiasm was just that—a pose. "You'll be wondering," he said, "why you were dragged into the Oddballs when you deserve a good long rest and chance to catch up on your education."

  "Rather," said Lunzie. He must think the area was under surveillance, and it probably was. Only the Mountain would be certainly beyond anyone's ability to spy on.

  "There are some interesting things going on—and you, with your experience of cold sleep, may be just the person we need. Of course, you will have to recertify . . ."

  Lunzie grimaced. "I hate fast-tapes."

  He was all sympathy. "I know. I hate them, too—it's like eating three meals in five minutes; your brain feels stuffed. But it's the only way, and unless you have two or three years to spare . . ."

  "No. You're right. What will I need?"

  What she would need, after 43 years out of date, was far more than Mayerd on Sassinak's ship had been able to give her. And she'd refused Mayerd's offer of fast-tape equipment. New surgical procedures, using new equipment: that meant not only fast-tape time, but actual in-the-OR work on "slushes," the gruesomely realistic androids used for surgical practice. New drugs, with all the attendant information on dosages, side effects, contraindications, and drug interferences. New theories of cognition that related to the coldsleep experience.

  One of the neat things about her hop-skip-and-jump experiences, Lunzie realized partway through this retraining, was that it gave her an unusual overview of medical progress . . . and regress. She solved one diagnostic problem on the fourth day, pointing out that a mere 45 years ago, and two sectors away, that cluster of symptoms was called Galles Disease. It had been wiped out by a clever genetic patch, and had now reoccurred ("Probably random mutation," said the senior investigator with a sigh. "I should have thought of that") in an area where everyone had forgotten about it.

  Differences between sectors, and between cultures within a sector, meant that what she learned might not be new in one place—or available in twenty others.

  Access to the best medical technology was at least as uneven as on Old Earth. Lunzie spent all her time in the fast-tape booths, or practicing procedures and taking the preliminary recertification exams. Basic and advanced life support, basic and advanced trauma first response, basic and advanced contagious disease techniques . . . her head would have spun if it could.

  In her brief time "off," she tried to catch up with current research in her area, flicking through the computerized journal abstracts.

  "What we really need is another team member for a trip to Diplo." Someone groaned, in the back of the room, and someone else shushed the groaner.

  "Come on," the speaker said, half-angrily. "It's only a short tour, thirty days max."

  "Because that's the medical limit," came a mutter. "This comes up every year," the speaker said. "We have a contract pending; we have an obligation; whatever your personal views, the heavyworlders on Diplo have significant medical problems which are still being researched,"

  "Not until you give us an allowance for G-damage." Lunzie thought that was the same mutterer, someone a few seats to her left and behind.

  "Pay and allowances are adjusted for local conditions," the speaker went on, staring fixedly at his notes. "This year's special topic is the effect of prolonged coldsleep on heavyworlder biochemistry, particularly the accumulation of calcium affecting cardiac function." He paused. Lunzie wondered when that topic had been assigned. Everyone would know, from her qualifications posted in the files, that she had special knowledge relevant to the research. But it would not do to show eagerness. The speaker went on. "We've already got a molecular biologist, and a cardiac physiologist—"

  The names came up on the main room screen, along with their most recent publications. Very impressive, Lunzie thought to herself. Both Bias, the biologist, and Tailler, the cardiac physiologist, had published lead articles in good journals.

  "Rehab medicine?" asked someone in back.

  The speaker nodded. "If your Boards include a subspecialty rating in heavyworlder rehab, certainly. Clearly relevant to this year's special problem."

  Another name went up on the screen, presumably the rehab specialist who'd spoken: Conigan, age 42, had published a textbook on heavyworlder rehabilitation after prolonged work undersea. Lunzie decided she'd waited long enough. What if someone else qualified for "her" slot?

  "I've got a background in prolonged coldsleep, and some heavyworlder experience." Heads turned to look at her; Discipline kept her from flushing under that scrutiny. The speaker peered at what she assumed was her file on his podium screen. "Ah . . . Lunzie. Yes. I see you haven't yet taken your Boards recertification exam?"

  "It's scheduled for three days from now." It had been scheduled for six months from now but Jerik had arranged for her to take the exam singly, ahead of time. "All the prelims are on file."

  "Yes, they are. It's amazing you've caught up so fast, and your skills are well suited to this mission. Contingent on your passing your Boards, you're accepted for this assignment." He looked up, scanning the room for the next possible applicant.

  The woman next to Lunzie nudged her.

  "Are you sure you want to go to Diplo? I heard your last coldsleep was because heavyworlders went primitive."

  Lunzie managed not to glare. She had not heard the rumors herself, but she'd
known they would be flying around the medical and scientific community.

  "I can't talk about it," she said, not untruthfully. "The case won't be tried for months, and until then—"

  "Oh, I quite understand. I'm not prying, Doctor. It's just that if it was heavyworlders, I'm surprised you're signing up for Diplo."

  Lunzie chuckled. "Well, there's this glitch in my pay records—"

  The woman snorted. "There would be. Of course; I see. You'd think they could realize the last thing you need is worry about money, but the Feds have acute formitis."

  "A bad case," Lunzie agreed.

  With the others, she craned her head to see the last responder, a dark man whose specialty was heavyworlder genetics. From the heft of his shoulders, he might have heavyworlder genes of his own, she thought.

  So it proved when the whole team met for briefing. Jarl was the smaller (and nonadapted) of twins born to a heavyworlder couple; he was fascinated by the unusual inheritance patterns of adaptation, and by the equally unusual inheritance patterns of tolerance or intolerance to coldsleep. Aside from his heavyworlder genes, he seemed quite normal, and Lunzie felt no uneasiness around him.

  Bias, the volatile molecular biologist, was far more upsetting; he seemed ready to fly into pieces at any moment. Lunzie wondered how he would take the heavy gravity; he didn't look particularly athletic. Tailler, the cardiac physiologist, impressed Lunzie as a good team leader: stable, steady, but energetic, he would be easy to work with. She already knew, from a short bio at the foot of one of his papers, that he climbed mountains for recreation: the physical effort should be within his ability. Conigan, the rehab specialist, was a slender redheaded woman who reminded Lunzie of an older (but no less enthusiastic) Varian.

  She was aware that she herself was the subject of just such curiosity and scrutiny. They would know little about her besides her file info: she had no friends or past associates they could question covertly. She wondered what they saw in her face, what they expected or worried about or hoped for. At least she had passed her Boards, and by a respectable margin, so Jerik had told her. She wondered, but did not ask, how he had gotten the actual raw scores, which supposedly no one ever saw.

  And all the while, Bias outlined the project in excited phrases, pausing with his pointer aloft to see if they'd understood the last point. Lunzie made herself pay attention. Whatever information she could get for Sassinak and the trial aside, her team members deserved her best work.

  By the time their ship came to the orbital station serving Diplo, they were all working easily together. Lunzie thought past the next few months, and Tanegli's trial, to hope that she would find such professional camaraderie again. There were things you could not say to a cruiser captain, however dear to your heart she was, jokes she would never get, ideas beyond her scope. And here Lunzie had that kind of ease.

  Chapter Three

  "I did not need this." Sassinak waved the hardcopy of the Security-striped message at Dupaynil and Ford. "I've got things to do. We all have. And the last thing we need to do is waste time playing nursemaid to a senile conspirator." Things had gone too smoothly, she thought, when she'd sent Lunzie off. She should have expected some hitch to her plans.

  Dupaynil had the suave expression she most disliked. "I beg your pardon, Commander?"

  He could not be that suave unless he knew what was in the message: Ford, who clearly did not, looked worried.

  "Orders," Sassinak said crisply. "New orders, sent with all applicable coding on the IFTL link. We are to transport the accused conspirator Tanegli and the alleged native-born Iretan Aygar to . . ." She paused, and watched them. Dupaynil merely waited, lips pursed; Ford spoke up.

  "Sector HQ? Fleet HQ on Regg?"

  "No. Federation Headquarters. For a full trial before and in the presence of the Federation High Council. We are responsible," and she glanced down at the message to check the precise wording, "responsible for the transportation and safe arrival of said prisoner, who shall be released to the custody of Council security forces only. The trial date has already been set, for a local date that translates to about eight standard months from now. Winter Assizes, as we were told before. Prisoner's counsel is given as Klepsin, Vigal, and Tollwin. And you know what that means."

  "Pinky Vigal, Defender of the Innocent," said Dupaynil, almost chuckling. "That ought to make an exciting trial. You know, Commander, he can probably make you look like a planet pirate yourself, a villainous sort masquerading as a Fleet officer. Hmmm . . . you stole the uniform from Tanegli, bribed everyone else to testify against him."

  "It's not funny," said Sassinak, glowering. She had never been one to follow the escapades of fashionable lawyers, but anyone in human space had heard of Pinky Vigal. It was another of the failings of civilian law, Sassinak thought, that someone everyone knew had done something could not be punished if a honey-tongued defense counsel could convince even one member of a trial jury that some minute error had been made in procedure. Fleet had better methods.

  "So," Ford broke in, clearly intending a distraction. "We're responsible for Tanegli until we get to Federation Central . . . and for Aygar as well? Why Aygar?"

  "Witness for both sides, I suppose," Dupaynil said with a flourish of his hand. "Friendly to one, hostile to the other, but indispensable to both."

  "And registered copies of all the testimony we took, and depositions from all bridge officers, and any other crew members having contact with the said Tanegli and Aygar," Sassinak continued to read. "Kipling's bunions! By now that's half the crew, the way Aygar's been roaming around. If I'd known . . ."

  She knew from Ford's expression that she must look almost as angry as she felt. They would spend weeks getting in and out of the required transfer points for Federation Central, and then weeks being interviewed—deposed, she reminded herself—and no doubt Fleet Security would have its own band of interrogators there.

  In the meantime, the Zaid-Dayan would be sitting idle while the enemy continued its work. She would no doubt have umpteen thousand forms to fill out and sign: in multiple copies which had to be processed individually, rather than on computer, for security reasons.

  She noticed that Dupaynil was watching her with alert interest. So he had read the message even before she'd seen it—which meant he had a tap on the IFTL link, or had somehow coerced one of her communications officers into peeling a copy to his quarters. What else did he know, or had he been told? She decided not to ask; he wouldn't tell her, and she'd just be angry when he refused.

  "Dupaynil." The change in her tone surprised him; his smugness disappeared. "I want you to start finding out which crew Aygar has been in contact with. Marines, Wefts, officers, enlisted, everyone. You can have a clerk if you need one—"

  "No . . . I can manage . . ." His voice was bemused; she felt a surge of glee that she was making him think.

  "I suspect it's too late to restrict his contacts. And after all, we want him friendly to FSP policies. But if the crew know that they'll have to go through paperwork and interviews because they talk to him, some may pull back."

  "Good idea . . . and I'd best get started." Dupaynil sketched a salute—to more than her rank, she was sure—and left.

  Sassinak said nothing for a moment, engaging her own (surely still undiscovered?) privacy systems. Then she grinned at Ford.

  "That sneak: he knew already."

  "I thought so, too. But how?"

  "He's Naval Intelligence—but I'm never sure with those types if he's Intelligence for someone else, or someones else, as well. The fact that he's planted his own devices—and too cleverly to reassure me of his ultimate aims—is distinctly unsettling because there's no telling why he's doing it. I'm"—and Sassinak pushed her thumb into her chest, grinning—"allowed to be that clever, but not my subordinates.

  "At the moment, that's not the issue. Getting you away to find your dear great-aunt or whatever is the issue, because I don't want you tied up for the time this is going to take. We need information
before that trial date." Sassinak pushed the orders over to Ford who noted the date and its conversion to Fleet standard notation on his personal handcomp. "If you can't find anything by then, be sure you're back to say so."

  "But how can I leave when all—"

  Sassinak hushed him with a gesture. "There are more tricks in that com shack than Dupaynil knows about. So far, he's the only one who knows that you were present when these orders arrived. And hes got priority orders he doesn't know about yet. But he soon will. Just follow my lead."

  The bridge crew came to attention when Sassinak arrived, but she gave the helm to Ford and entered the communications alcove.

  "Captain's orders," she said crisply to the officer on watch. "You received an IFTL a short time ago?"

  "Yes, ma'am, to the captain's address with encryption."

  Sassinak could not tell if the com officer's tension was normal or not. "The contents of that message require me to sit com watch myself for two hours." This was unusual, but not unheard of: sometimes extremely sensitive information was sent this way. "I expect incoming IFTL signals, encrypted, and by these orders," and she waved the paper, "only the ship's captain can receive them."

  "Yes, ma'am. Will the captain need any assistance?"

  Sassinak let herself glare, and the com officer vanished onto the bridge. What she was going to do was both illegal and dangerous . . . but so was what Dupaynil had done, and what the enemy had done. She logged onto the board and engaged her private comlink to the Ssli interface.

  So far, normal procedure. But now . . . her fingers danced on the board, calling up the file of the original encrypted message. And there it was, the quadruple header code she had never forgotten, not in all the years. Idiots, she thought; they should have changed that long since, as she had changed from a naive ensign standing communications watch to an experienced and powerful ship captain.

  With the right header code, it was easy to prepare an incoming message Dupaynil would have to believe was genuine. The other "incoming" message would be in regular Fleet fashion. Ford's detachment on "family compassionate leave" . . . but it would not arrive until Dupaynil was gone.