by Marko Kloos
“I cleaned everything up and removed all the bone shards. Whatever hit your hand pulverized both your MCP joints on the outer two fingers.”
“The what?”
“Metacarpophalangeal joints,” she says, and holds up her hand. She taps the knuckle joints at the base of her fingers. “Those right there. That’s going to be a bitch to fix. And they’ll need to do it soon if they want to reconnect those nerve endings.”
“How soon?”
“The sooner, the better,” Randall says. “I just cleared up the worst of the mess and fused you up a bit. That hand needs a lot more attention than I am qualified to give. You need to see a fleet physician, and soon.”
“That may be a problem.” I sit up and wince. “I don’t think we’re on speaking terms with the fleet right now.”
She turns to her medicine cabinets again and takes out a medication cylinder. She pops it open, verifies the contents, and closes it again. Then she hands it to me. I take it with my good hand.
“I’m not going to put a DNA lock on those. Take for pain as needed. No more than two every four hours, though, or you’ll be shitting bricks for a month straight. And don’t operate a starship or heavy ordnance-loading gear. There’s a fair chance these won’t do the job completely for the sort of pain you’ll have soon. If it gets too much, come to me and I’ll shoot you up with something stronger.”
“Thanks.” I put the cylinder into the chest pocket of my CDU blouse, which is still stained with the blood from my nose. “What if I can’t get this hand seen by a navy doc for a month or two?”
“Then you may have to retrain how to tie your boots with a hand and a half,” Corpsman Randall says.
The combat information center is back to its usual level of focused activity when I walk through the hatch again. Indy’s supply sergeant issued me a new set of fatigues, and the blood is gone from my face, but the thick adhesive bandage pack on my hand keeps me from feeling restored.
“Mr. Grayson,” the colonel says when he sees me. “How’s the hand?”
“What’s left of it seems fine,” I say. “Two fingers still gone, though.”
Colonel Campbell grimaces when he sees my wrapped hand. “Those stupid, trigger-happy SP morons.”
“He didn’t mean to shoot me. He meant to put one into Dmitry.”
“Yeah, I saw that. If it’s any consolation at all, your fingers bought us our return trip to Fomalhaut. XO?”
“Yes, sir,” Major Renner says.
“Get Sergeant Chistyakov down to CIC.”
“Aye, sir.” Major Renner picks up the handset on the console in front of her.
Colonel Campbell walks over to the holotable in the middle of the CIC pit. I follow him down and look at the plot. We are making a racetrack pattern between Earth and Luna. There are small clusters of pale blue and red icons dotting the plot, NAC and SRA ships in small task groups or by themselves, docking at their respective coalitions’ space stations or patrolling in orbit.
“We’re in stealth mode,” the colonel says. “Nobody’s actively looking for us right now, but we’re staying low-profile because we don’t have the time to sort out just what exactly is going on around here.” He nods to the date and time display on the CIC bulkhead. “We’ve burned up two weeks just getting here, and the return trip is going to take longer.”
“Fuel tanks are full at least. Good thing we ran out of fuel when we did,” Major Renner says.
“How are we on chow and drinking water?”
“We have enough rations in storage to make the return trip. Water’s more iffy. I started replenishment with the station on a hunch when we docked, but we had to cut short due to our, uh, rushed departure. We’re half-full on the potable.”
“Should be okay if we don’t all take long showers every day.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll manage.”
I look at the plot and exhale slowly. We are so close to Luna, closer than I’ve been since I visited Halley at Drop Ship U. I’ve made it back, just like I promised, but I have no way to tell her that I’m here, no way to let her know that I made it close enough to see the above-surface structures of Fleet School through the optical feed without any magnification. I’m here, and now I have to leave again, and I may not come back. This ship is tired, her crew is worn-out, and we’ve dodged almost-certain death too many times now for the odds to stay on our side. I’ve used up all my luck and a bunch of other grunts’ besides: Stratton’s, Paterson’s, that of the SI troopers who bought it on the Sirius Ad drop, that of the HD mudlegs who burned up or got ripped to shreds by Shrike cannon fire in New Longyearbyen, and God knows how many others who have fought and died near me when I had the luck to make it back onto the drop ship and back to the carrier every time. Feeling a crushing sense of disappointment and despair because I won’t get to see my fiancée again after all seems petty and selfish, but it’s what I feel nonetheless, and I can’t help it.
Behind me, the main CIC hatch opens, and Dmitry walks in, escorted by Corporal Nez. I nod at him, and he returns the nod.
Colonel Campbell picks up the receiver on the console in front of him.
“1MC, all-ship announcement,” he says to the comms officer.
“1MC, all hands,” the comms officer confirms.
The colonel takes a long, slow breath. Then he puts the receiver against his ear and presses the transmit bar on the side.
“All hands, this is the CO. Listen up. We are in stealth, about fifty thousand kilometers from Luna, and the XO is preparing the ship for our return trip to Fomalhaut. I know you’ve all been manning your duty stations for far longer than any of us had anticipated when we set out for this cruise. Our little ship wasn’t made for deep-space combat ops, but that’s what we’ve been doing for the last two months straight. I know you’re all tired, and if it were up to me, I’d give you all a few weeks of leave right now and hand this boat over to a relief crew. But that is not what we’re about to do.
“What we have done—what we are doing right now—is flat-out mutiny. We have resisted arrest, fought military police officers, engaged in a gun battle with civilian police, and we have stolen this ship out of the dock against orders. We have engaged another fleet unit in self-defense and damaged them, probably killed a few of their crew. If another fleet ship catches us here in the solar system, we will probably end up directly in the high-risk ward at Leavenworth if they don’t blow us out of space instantly. This is not a legal gray area like our refusal to follow orders above New Svalbard. They ordered this ship’s command staff relieved, and Indy to join the defense of Earth. We not only disobeyed those orders; we resisted with force of arms.
“But I chose this course of action because we have a task force and thirty thousand people waiting for our return in Fomalhaut. We need to let them know how to get home because they will not transition back blindly. This is our mission, and we will fulfill it. I am not about to sacrifice that many lives to add what is ultimately an insignificant amount of firepower to Earth’s defensive picket. You’ve all seen what the Lankies can do; if they show up here, our presence isn’t going to make a bit of a difference.
“Anyone who is having second thoughts: I cannot in good conscience disobey my orders and expect you all to follow the ones I am giving. If you want off this ship, report to the NCO mess within the next fifteen minutes. We will fly you out with the drop ship and deliver you to the nearest fleet facility on this side of Luna. I repeat: fifteen minutes. CO out.”
Colonel Campbell puts the handset back into its receptacle and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he looks over to the holotable display and straightens out his uniform tunic, which wasn’t at all rumpled.
“XO,” he says.
“Sir.” Major Renner steps up next to him.
“Have the drop-ship pilot prep his bird and put it on standby. Then go down to the NCO mess and collect whoever wants off this boat. Execute.”
“Aye, sir.” Major Renner picks up the comms handset and turns away.
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“I can’t make you the same offer, Sergeant Chistyakov,” Colonel Campbell says to Dmitry. “We need you to open the door for us again, or your comrades over New Svalbard will have a bad month. Unless you want to give us the code and leave your suit with us. In that case, I’d have the drop ship take you to Luna with the others and deliver you to the nearest SRA military post.”
“Cannot give code.” Dmitry smiles and shakes his head slightly.
“Then I guess you’re staying with us for the ride back. Sorry.”
“I have orders to come back to Minsk with little imperialist spy ship of yours.” Dmitry shrugs. “I follow orders. Friends in 144th Spaceborne Assault Regiment will be very mad if they die because I do not come back.”
Colonel Campbell smiles the tiniest of smiles. “Glad to hear it, Sergeant.” Then he looks at me. “What about you, Mr. Grayson?”
“What about me, sir?” I ask.
“You’re badly wounded. That hand of yours needs to be seen by a surgeon, in a proper medical facility. You want to take the ship to Luna, I will not think any less of you.” He nods at my bandaged hand. “There’s no glory in losing that when you don’t have to. I don’t think we need to worry about Sergeant Chistyakov on the ride back. Take that seat on the drop ship.”
The sudden wild hope I feel is almost like a living animal trying to work its way out of my rib cage. I look from Colonel Campbell to Dmitry and back to the colonel.
“They’ll arrest me the second I set foot onto Luna, sir.”
“They probably will. Maybe not, if word hasn’t gotten to them yet. In either case, they’ll send you to a medical center to get fixed. We’ll all end up in the brig anyway if we make it back. Either way, you’ll be ahead of the game.”
“May I consult with the corpsman, sir?”
“Of course you may,” Colonel Campbell says. “You have”—he checks the clock on the bulkhead—“eleven minutes to decide before I have the drop ship warmed up. Go ahead and make your choice.”
“Yes, sir.”
I leave the pit and walk over to the CIC’s hatch. When I reach the threshold, I glance back. Colonel Campbell is over by the holotable sketching on the plot with a light pen. Dmitry is over on the edge of the CIC pit, hands folded in front of his chest, watching the activity around him with the usual relaxed amusement on his face, like someone who is listening to a friend telling a familiar joke to someone else. He sees me looking over at him and inclines his head in my direction. I return his nod and walk out.
Corpsman Randall is in the passageway in front of the sick-bay berth when I get down to her deck. She’s securing the hatch when she sees me coming down the passageway, and she pauses with her hand on the locking lever.
“Back so soon? Meds not doing the job?”
“Meds are fine,” I say. Then I notice that she has a small pack slung across her shoulder. “Are you going over to Luna?”
She frowns and shakes her head curtly. “That’s a negative. I’m the only medical specialist on this ship. If I leave, nobody’s going to get any care that doesn’t come out of a bottle.”
“Don’t you have family on Earth? You don’t sound like a colony brat.”
“Yeah, I have family.” Her eyes narrow a little. “I have a little girl who’s seven and a husband who’s a civil servant. Down there, in Virginia.” She nods at the nearby bulkhead. “I haven’t seen them in eleven months. And right now I am making my peace with the idea of never seeing them again. So if you wouldn’t mind making your business quick, I would be much obliged.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to rub it in.”
She looks down at the arti-grav tiles on the deck. “It’s not like you don’t have people on Earth,” she says after a moment. “We all do, right?”
“My mom,” I say. “Down in Boston, in the ritzy part of PRC-7. And my fiancée, over on Luna.”
“What did you want to see me about just now?”
“The skipper says I should take the ride to Luna. If I don’t get this hand treated for another month maybe—”
“You should go,” she says immediately. “I’m no neurosurgeon, but I know that a day or even a week is much better than a month when it comes to cybernetic implants. You want to use those fingers for more than cosmetic purposes.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I say.
“Luna, huh?” Corpsman Randall says when I turn to leave.
“Yeah. Stone’s throw away. Told her I’d be back in time for our wedding.”
“You should keep your promise,” she says. “Marriage is great. Make your own joy. God knows the universe doesn’t throw much our way right now.”
She gives me a curt smile and finishes securing the sick-bay hatch.
“Whatever you decide to do, best of luck, Andrew.”
“You, too, Nancy,” I say. I watch as she walks down the passageway and disappears at the next intersection.
I check my chrono. Five minutes to report to the NCO mess for a ride to Luna.
I could see Halley again today. We could get married tomorrow. And if we all die, at least we’ll die together. The world is about to end. What does it all matter in the end?
There’s Halley, and Mom. Then there’s Sergeant Fallon, Constable Guest, Dr. Stewart, Corpsman Randall. If I go, I get to—maybe—spend some more time with Halley before it all goes to shit. Is it going to make a difference if I stay on Indy and make the trip back to Fomalhaut, risk getting stranded in space and starving or suffocating, or getting blotted out by a Lanky ship? If I don’t stay on Indy, and they get into a bind where my presence could make the tiniest bit of a difference—
Not that I’d ever know in the end.
I check my chrono again. Four minutes, ticking down.
I walk down the passageway to the next intersection. Left: the way to the staircase below, where the NCO mess is. Right: the connector to the main passageway that leads back up to CIC.
I look at my bandaged hand. It has a vaguely triangular shape to it now, like a crustacean claw. This is not what I want to look at for the rest of my life.
Then I hear the voice of Sergeant Burke in my head. My boot camp instructor sounds as clear as if he were standing right next to me in this narrow passageway.
Nobody gives a shit what we want. We take what we’re served, and we ask for seconds, and that’s the way it goes.
We take what we’re served, I think. But sometimes there’s a menu, and we get to pick. Shitty choices, but choices.
I know which way to go, of course. I’ve known it since I left CIC a few minutes ago. I’m already hating myself for it, but I would hate myself for the other choice, too, and maybe just a little more.
I turn left, toward the NCO mess. I’ll have to go to my berth and fetch a few things first.
The NCO mess is empty when I step through the hatch a little while later. I check my chrono to see that I’ve missed the fifteen-minute window by three minutes. I turn on my heels and race down the passageway to the staircase that leads below.
On the flight deck, the engines of Indy’s solitary drop ship are growling in standby. The tail hatch is open, and there are several people in the cargo hold, getting situated in the jump seats. Major Renner is standing at the bottom of the ramp. I trot down to the tail end of the ship, and she turns around when she hears my boots on the hard deck.
“Staff Sergeant Grayson,” she says. “You almost missed your ride.”
“I’m not going, ma’am.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t the skipper order you to go and get that hand fixed?”
“He didn’t order, ma’am. He strongly suggested.”
“So you’re staying with us for the ride back.”
“Yes, ma’am. I suppose I am.”
I hold up the two small standard mail containers I prepared hastily in my berth just a few minutes ago.
“I was hoping to pass these on for someone to deliver to Luna, drop ’em in a mail tube for me.”
Major
Renner looks at the two sealed plastic envelopes, mild surprise on her face. Then she inclines her head toward the open cargo bay of the drop ship behind her.
“Hurry up,” she says.
I trudge up the tail ramp and look around in the interior. There are six sailors in the jump seats to my left and right. I don’t know any of them except by occasional sight in the ship’s passageways, but they are all wearing bandages or flexcasts, which means they are the sailors who were wounded when the Lankies shot up Indy a few days ago. There are four dark green body bags in the middle aisle—the KIA we suffered in the same attack. All of the fleet sailors are junior enlisted, and despite the fact that I’m in a hurry, I don’t feel comfortable entrusting any of them with what I carry. I wrote a letter to Halley and one to my mother, old-fashioned handwritten mail that will have to do in the absence of MilNet access. I can’t leave the system again without at least some attempt to say a few last things to the two people who mean the most to me.
The drop ship’s crew chief sits in his usual jump seat by the forward bulkhead, in a nook behind the onboard armory next to the narrow passage that leads to the cockpit. Outside, the noise level increases tenfold as the pilot revs the engines up to operational thrust.
The crew chief is an E-7 named Williamson. He wears a barely regulation mustache, and he has a rather large knife strapped to his flight suit’s chest armor upside down. I’ve exchanged a few words with him in the NCO mess on occasion. He looks up at me expectantly as I approach his jump seat.
“Would you drop something into the mail chute for me when you do the turnaround at Luna?” I ask. “I’ll talk the Russian out of some hooch to share if you do.”
Williamson smirks and holds out his hand. “You don’t need to bribe me, but I won’t turn it down, either,” he says.
I hand him the two envelopes, and he stuffs them into the chest pocket of his armor without looking at them.
“I’ll send ’em off for you, Staff Sergeant. Now get off this thing if you’re not coming along. You’re holding up traffic.”