Dawnwind 1: Last Man Standing

by George R. Shirer

  “Exploring, sir,” said Fel, easily. “Kami and I have never served on a ship this size before.”

  “What do you think of her so far?”

  The Second Defender grinned. “She’s huge, sir. My last ship would have fit in this corridor!”

  “You were doing transport runs, Mr. Fel?”

  “Yes, sir. Between Evato Colony and the Silver Wheel.”

  The First raised his eyebrows. “Are you a gambling man, guardsman?”

  “Not any more, sir!”

  John laughed. “Too bad. I enjoy a good game of primes.” He turned to Kami. “And what about you, Ninth? What do you think of the Dawnwind so far?”

  Kami said the first thing that popped into her head. “I’d feel better about her, sir, if the lights were working.”

  The First chuckled. “Yes, I can understand that. Let’s head to the core and see what’s going on.”

  He turned and headed down the corridor, moving at a brisk trot. Kami and Fel scrambled to follow.

  I’d feel better about her if the lights were working. Merciful pantheon, thought Kami. He’s going to think I’m an idiot!

  * * * * *

  Three figures stumbled into the infirmary, a man and a woman supporting a third man between them.

  “We need a medic!”

  Hesef Madivo was already rushing toward the trio. The medic noted, with approval, that Cij was right beside him.

  “Get him to a bed,” ordered Madivo.

  Cij relieved the woman, who started ringing her hands. Her face was white, her eyes wide with alarm.

  Madivo took her hands. “What happened, guardsman?”

  The woman blinked. “We were working on the infonodes, on this deck, when there was a power surge. Suz took the brunt of the discharge...”

  Nodding, Madivo turned and hurried to the injured man’s side. The fellow’s eyes were half-shut, his head lolling. He had been wearing a handscanner when the accident happened and it looked as if it had partially melted. The air smelt of molten synthetics and burnt flesh.

  Cij was staring at the bed’s medical display, frowning. “I’m getting no reading from the patient’s implant, sir.”

  Madivo grunted. That wasn’t surprising, given the amount of current that must have passed through the tech’s body. Yanking on his handscanner, Madivo swept it over the injured man’s body. Glancing at the display, the medic nodded.

  “Stabilizers, Cij. Half strength.”

  “Is he going to be okay?” the other man asked. His eyes were wide and frightened.

  The First Medic ignored him. He passed the scanner over the patient’s injured hand, his mouth tightening. Cij returned from the dispensary with an injector, pressed it against the injured man’s neck. The patient groaned; his eyes slid shut.

  “First Medic?”

  Madivo scanned the man again. “He’s fine. Go prep a surgical station.”

  Cij blinked. “But don’t we need to. . . .”

  “Prepare a surgical station, medic,” snapped Madivo.

  The young medic rushed to obey. Madivo glanced up and saw the two techs clutching each other’s hands, watching with alarmed expressions.

  “You two. Did you secure that node?”

  They glanced at each other.

  “I don’t remember,” said the woman.

  “No, I don’t think we did,” said the man. “We were in such a hurry to get Suz here....”

  “Go secure it,” snapped Madivo. “The last thing we need right now are more injuries!”

  The two techs glanced at one another, then turned and bolted from the room. Cij returned.

  “Surgical station is ready, sir!”

  “Help me move him, Cij,” said Madivo.

  He reached for the patient, but Cij brushed past him, scooped the man up, slung him over his shoulder and headed for the surgical station with his burden. Madivo hurried after him.

  Cij had the injured man on the surgical bed and was already cutting his uniform away from the injured limb. The fabric had partially fused to the tech’s handscanner, and as Cij worked to remove it, the fellow moaned. His eyes opened. They were bright with pain. Madivo touched the tech’s face, gently turned it toward him, away from Cij and his actions.

  “Guardsman, can you hear me?”

  The man gasped. His eyes darted to his right, but Madivo’s grip was firm. There was no need to let the man see his wound. Not yet.

  “You were injured, guardsman,” said Madivo. “But you’re going to be fine.” His voice was firm and even. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes. . . .”

  That was good enough for Madivo. “I’m going to give you something for the pain. It’ll put you to sleep, but you’ll be fine.”

  The tech nodded and Madivo removed his hand from the fellow’s face. He reached over the bed, selected an injector from the surgical tray and pressed it against the man’s neck. The fellow sighed and shut his eyes. His entire body went limp.

  Madivo tugged off his handscanner. “Cij, I need you to set up a filter unit.”

  Cij nodded, placed the surgical cutters he had been using on the tray and rushed off to get the unit. By the time he returned, Madivo had pulled on gloves and turned the station’s nanotech scrubbers up to maximum.

  “We’re going to have to remove his hand, medic.”

  The younger man gaped. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “His fingers are already going septic.”

  Cij nodded, and began to secure the filter unit to the patient’s arm. He moved swiftly and calmly.

  “Have you ever assisted at an amputation, medic?”

  “No, sir.”

  Madivo picked up a surgical cutter and muttered a silent prayer. “Then pay attention,” said the First Medic. “You may learn something.”

  * * * * *

  John Epcott strode down the corridors of his ship, Kami Guso and Fel Ezep trotting to keep up with him. They moved at a brisk pace, heading straight for the core. They detoured twice to avoid sealed corridors, but Epcott showed no sign of hesitation. He simply backtracked, took a different route, and proceeded. Kami realized he must have familiarized himself with the layout of the entire ship.

  Is that something all Firsts do? She wondered.

  Glancing to her right, Kami saw Fel was marching along, a grin on his face. He seemed inordinately pleased to be marching after the human. Kami wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started singing a chorus or two of “Lady Huwi Walked to Town.”

  They were passing more people now, techs and engineers rushing along the carpeted corridors in twos and threes. The First nodded at the guardsmen, but did not stop to speak with anyone. The techs and engineers did not linger.

  Finally, they passed through a bulkhead door, and arrived at the core. The core was a huge, spherical chamber with six tiers, occupying the center of the ship. Workstations lined the walls, all of them occupied by guardsmen murmuring to each other. At the center of the chamber was the power core, a transparent cylinder filled with a swirling vortex of red and yellow fluid. Below the core, was the shunt, the block of exotic matter that made it possible for Junian ships to cross interstellar distances.

  Epcott touched a guardsman’s shoulder. “Where can I find the First Engineer?”

  The guardsman’s eyes widened for just a moment. “First Engineer is on the main level, sir. There’s a tube. . . .”

  “I see it, guardsman,” said John. “Thank you.”

  On the main level, engineers and technicians were rushing in and out of the core. A cluster of guardsmen stood around a man with long, dark blue hair issuing orders in a brisk tone. Someone noticed the First and the crowd parted. Kami and Fel hung back, watching as the First Engineer gave John Epcott a weak smile.

  “Hello again, First,” said Vetew.

  “First Engineer. What’s our status?”

  “You know about the rogue agent, sir?”

  John nodded.

  Vetew sighed. “It started off as just a nui
sance, but now it’s starting to become a real problem. Every hardwired system on the ship is spasming.”

  “Is Doorstep aware of our situation?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re having the same problems.”

  “You’ve reestablished comms?”

  Vetew looked chagrined. “No, First. We’ve been using personal comms.”

  “Clever,” said the First. “How do we solve this problem?”

  Vetew hesitated. “I’m starting to think the only way is to do a complete purge of the ship’s system. Wipe everything and then reinitialize using the protected memory.”

  “Is there a reason you haven’t already done that?”

  “If we do it, sir, it’ll push back our departure by at least a day. Maybe longer.”

  John grinned, wryly. “I’d rather have a delayed departure, First Engineer, than no departure at all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve established contact with the command?”

  “Yes, First.”

  “Good. Advise them of the decision. And Doorstep as well.”

  “Um. Excuse me, First?”

  Kami looked over, saw Fel had stepped forward, looking uneasy.

  “Yes, Mr. Ezep?”

  “What about the crew, sir? If the First Engineer does shut down everything, we’ll lose lights, artificial gravity. Almost everything.”

  John glanced at Vetew. “The Eighth has a point, First Engineer.”

  “I have techs on every deck, sir. We can pass the word to them using personal comms and we can hold off until everyone’s been notified.”

  John nodded. “I’m heading to the command, First Engineer. Let me know when you’re ready to reboot.”

  Vetew blinked. “Reboot, sir?”

  The First chuckled. “My apologies. A human term.” John turned to Kami and Fel. “Well, what say we head to the command, you two?”

  * * * * *

  Imes Zetajo rubbed his eyes and looked around Doorstep Station’s command. The circular chamber was filled with guardsmen, occupying workstations, rushing in and out of the room. There was a sense of desperation in much of their actions, and Zetajo couldn’t ignore the frightened looks shared between his people.

  The station was grinding to a halt. Zetajo hoped that when the Defense Authority caught up with the troublemaker who launched it, that they shoved him somewhere cold and lonely.

  And dark, added Zetajo.

  Almost all of Doorstep Station was dark. The illuminators had been the first system to be impacted by the rogue. The only light in the command came from the flickering screens of workstations and fiercely gripped pressure-torches.

  “First Officer?”

  Zetajo turned to the comms specialist drafted to coordinate their makeshift comm-net. “Yes, guardsman?”

  “We’ve just received a message from the Dawnwind, sir. Their First Engineer is going to do a complete system reset to try and purge the rogue.”

  Zetajo raised his eyebrows and considered the news. “Ask them to keep us informed, guardsman. First Engineer Sul!”

  A rotund man with pale red hair and eyepaint resembling greasy fingerprints stepped out of the dark. “Yes, First?”

  “Would a system reset purge the rogue?”

  First Engineer Sul considered the question. “Possibly, sir. But we would lose all our info and it would take us hours to get back to normal operations. Perhaps as long as a day.”

  “What about basic operations?”

  “We could have those up in two hours, First.”

  “Excuse me, Officer Zetajo. May I have a word?”

  Zetajo turned. Nuso Hepiniv, the Third Officer of the Sixth Fleet, had joined them. Hepiniv’s transport had been delayed by the rogue, trapping the man aboard Doorstep. Once the extent of the rogue’s malevolence had become apparent, Hepiniv had come to the command and requested a terminal. Now, for the first time in hours, the man was speaking to Zetajo.

  “If you reset the station’s systems, we’ll lose the rogue’s trail. At this point, that would be inexcusable.”

  Zetajo bowed his head. “With respect, sir, I’ve got a station full of frightened civilians and offworlders. I believe keeping them safe is more important than tracking the rogue to its source.”

  “I disagree,” said Hepiniv. “This agent, and its creator, represents a clear and imminent threat to the security of Juni. Eliminating that threat is more important than the discomfort of a few hundred people.”

  “What if the rogue gets worse, sir?” asked Zetajo. “Suppose its next act is to open an airlock? If that happens, we’ll be dealing with more than mere discomfort. We’ll have sacrificed people that we could have saved.”

  “That hasn’t happened,” said Hepiniv. “The rogue has been disruptive, but no one has been killed by it.”

  “Not yet,” interjected Sul. “But there have been unexpected power surges, sir. Over thirty people have been sent to the station’s infirmary with injuries.”

  “Noted, First Engineer,” said Hepiniv. “I would ask, Mr. Zetajo, that you do not attempt a system reset until after the Dawnwind completes her own. If, after that, she does not become reinfected with the rogue, then, by all means, reset the station’s systems. Until then, I believe that First Engineer Sul can keep Doorstep running.”

  “That’s actually a good idea, First,” said Sul. “We don’t know the vector the rogue used to compromise our systems. It’s possible Dawnwind might be infected by it again.”

  Zetajo frowned. “Very well. We’ll hold off until we see how the Dawnwind’s strategy plays out.”

  “Pantheon willing,” murmured Sul, “it’ll work.”

  * * * * *

  Upio Jovut’s leg was starting to ache, a sure sign that he had been on it too long. Each step brought a twinge of pain, prompting him to find his way to Dawnwind’s infirmary. The First Defender was surprised to discover a number of other guardsmen waiting for medical attention. Most of the injuries seemed minor, but one young woman looked to have been badly scalded. She was being tended to by a concerned young medic.

  Upio joined the waiting wounded. Their conversation was soft, full of rumor and speculation about what was going on with the ship’s systems.

  An older man stepped into the waiting area. He was tall and thin, with short, dark blue hair and an expression that could have soured wine. The insignia on his uniform identified him as the First Medic and Fifth Officer. His gaze drifted over the waiting guardsmen, paused for a moment on Jovut, then slid past him. The First Medic went to a guardsman holding a compress to his head.

  “What happened?” The First Medic’s tone was brusque but his manner was gentle. He removed the compress and peered at the man’s scalp.

  “I was working in the transport bay when the gravity spasmed. When it restored I hit my head on a ladder.”

  Grunting, the medic led the man to a nearby examination table. “Sit there.”

  Jovut watched the medic inject the guardsman with an anesthetic before he set to work repairing the injury. He kept up a steady, soothing stream of words as he went about his work and, a few minutes later, sent the guardsman on his way.

  After that, the medic made quick work of the other wounded. His manner was brisk, but knowledgeable. Most of the injuries, as Upio had ascertained, were minor. They could all be blamed on the rogue agent wreaking havoc with the ship’s systems. Finally, the First Medic approached Upio.

  “Third Officer, how can I help you?”

  “My leg is giving me trouble,” said Upio. He touched the offending limb.

  The First Medic ran his handscanner over it. “Did you fall?”

  “No, it’s an old injury. It acts up from time to time.”

  Studying the display, the First Medic frowned. “The limb is synthetic?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you lose the original?”

  “I was wounded during the Bright Sky Conflict.”

  “I was at Bright Sky. That was an ugly business.”
<
br />   “Yes,” agreed Upio. “It was.”

  “Hesef Madivo,” said the First Medic, extending his palms. “At Bright Sky, I was aboard the Healing Hands.”

  Upio stroked the medic’s palms. “I was on Bright Sky itself. Part of the rearguard, under Fleet Officer Fetali.”

  “Fetali? Wasn’t she the one who blew up the mines?”

  “She was.”

  “Why did she do it?” asked Madivo. “I’ve never understood that.”

  “Honestly? I think she did it just to spoil the Dilatans’ meal.”

  Madivo raised his eyebrows. “It sounds like she was an interesting woman.”

  Upio smiled, sadly. “She was . . . complicated.”

  The First Medic grunted. “Whoever cooked up this leg for you did a bad job.”

  “It’s worked perfectly fine for years.”

  “But you’ve experienced discomfort since you were first fitted with it. Correct?”

  Upio shrugged. “The medic said there would be a period of adjustment.”

  Madivo snorted. “That period of adjustment should have ended after the first day. No, the reason the leg causes you discomfort is because your body is trying to reject it.”

  “No one else has ever made that diagnosis,” protested the First Defender.

  “I’ll bet whenever you’ve gone to a medic, they’ve just scanned your implant and given you anti-inflamatories.” He shook his head, a look of irritation plain on his face. “Treating the symptoms and not their cause. If they’d bothered to scan the leg and the neural interface they would have figured out the problem immediately.”

  Upio frowned. “Wouldn’t I have manifested more severe symptoms, if my body was trying to reject the leg?”

  “Your implant has been actively suppressing most of them,” said Madivo. “But it can only do so much for so long. It’s reached its limit.”

  The First Defender frowned. “Can you fix the problem?”

  “Easily. It’s just a matter of altering the leg, so that your immune system doesn’t see it as a threat.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Five minutes for a scan and fifteen minutes to alter the leg.”