Riding the Red Horse

by Christopher Nuttall

  When Joonta got to her feet, Nateel was there, offering a hand down from her place in her saddle.

  “Climb up!” Nateel yelled. “You shoot, I ride!”

  Joonta—scraped and bruised—took Nateel’s hand, and helped pull herself up onto the pony’s back. Nateel’s bow passed wordlessly between the women, then they were off. It was much easier to aim, now that someone else was managing the problem of the pony. Joonta put three more men down—arrows buried into faces and necks—before a surprising thing happened.

  “For the general and the Combine, HUUAH!” Nateel screamed, loud enough for the entire guard to hear. So loud, and with such force, in fact, that Joonta would have sworn Nateel was not capable of uttering such an inhuman noise.

  The effect was immediate.

  The general’s guard as a whole erupted with a loud, unified: HUUAH! Joonta's voice was higher-pitched than most, but it was among the loudest.

  And just like that, the Imperials broke and ran. Perhaps half the number which had initially attacked, turned and began fleeing back up the slopes. Panicked. Disorganized. Whipped. Nateel sent her pony after them, hollering at the top of her lungs while Joonta exhausted the last of the arrows. When it became clear that the defeat had become a full rout, Joonta tugged at Nateel’s arm and shouted, “They’re done! We don’t want to get too far from the wagons, lest the Imperials regroup and turn on us!”

  Nateel slowed her pony and guided it back around to where the wagons were huddled. When they approached the general—his helmet off, clutched in one hand—Nateel’s animal was covered in froth, and shivering from exertion.

  Both Nateel and Joonta slid off the pony’s back, allowing it to rest and catch its breath.

  “Nicely done,” General Erel remarked, tipping his head. “There was a moment where I thought they had us. You kept them occupied just enough for us to . . . well, we can conduct an after-battle examination later. Right now we have wounded and dead to attend to. That, and finding an alternate route to Zurr. Losing the bridge is no minor calamity.”

  “We will find a way, sir,” Joonta said, looking at Nateel. “We can ride up and down the stream, looking for a shallow, slow point where the current won’t threaten the wagons, nor sweep away men on foot.”

  “Good.” Erel said. “Nateel, walk your pony back, allow it to drink, then make haste. Unless my eyes deceive me, Joonta, the pony that threw you is already at the water’s edge. Hopefully only grazed? I expect your report as soon as you have it.”

  Joonta and Nateel mutually nodded, then set off at a fast walk, the horse in tow. Out of the corner of her eye, Joonta noted the erectness of Nateel’s posture. The calmness in the shorter woman’s expression.

  Wordlessly, Joonta reached up and tapped a fist on Nateel’s shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt. But with enough force to make her sentiment known. A tiny smile crossed Nateel’s lips, then she too reached up and tapped a fist on Joonta’s shoulder. Whatever else happened, things were going to be different from now on. Between them.

  Editor's Introduction to:

  THEY ALSO SERVE

  by Tedd Roberts

  Tedd Roberts is the pen name of a neuroscience researcher with a 35-year career in both laboratory and clinical aspects of physiology and pharmacology. He also has a long familial and professional connection with the US military, in the latter case working with military and civilian agencies to develop diagnostics, pharmaceuticals and medical technologies that benefit soldiers and civilians alike. When you read “They Also Serve”, keep in mind that he has recently been working as part of a team to develop “neural prosthetics” to restore human brain functions following brain injury or disease.

  Tedd has probably written more words than I have in government grant proposals alone. When we talk, which we do regularly, since he’s a pretty close friend, I try to avoid mentioning how much of that is probably as fictional as anything I’ve ever written.

  He also has an ongoing interest in public education and brain awareness, which has led him to write a series of science fact and fiction. These non-fiction articles are a regular feature on the Baen Books site and are available for free. Tedd frequently gives public talks on science, science fiction, and the science in science fiction for SF conventions, as well as student and civic groups. He is a subject matter expert relied upon by many SF/F authors, game developers, and members of the entertainment media via the Science and Entertainment Exchange, a service of the National Academy of Sciences.

  His first published fiction, “They Also Serve”, is right up that alley and on the cutting edge of the medically possible. Look to see it, sooner than you might think, in a grievously wounded soldier near you.

  THEY ALSO SERVE

  by Tedd Roberts

  The operating room was as quiet as it was empty. Entering it, Tobias Toby Greene, M.D. felt uneasy, but couldn't immediately figure out what was wrong. It hit him suddenly: Ah, that was it, operating rooms are rather cramped but this one was a vast open space with only an operating table in the center. It should have had supply cabinets on the walls, a large anesthesia/monitoring device, instrument table with all of the sterilized tools for surgery, microscopes, lights, monitors… and people…where are the people?

  Instead of white walls and ceiling, the room seemed to recede into the distance, even into an infinity itself; dim, gray, and empty. Again Toby wondered: Where were the people? There should have been another surgeon, an anesthesiologist, several nurses, students, residents, medical device company representatives…

  Toby's hands felt strange—wet, cold, sticky—he looked down at the blood and the scalpel in his left hand. What was he doing? He couldn't remember. He noticed then that he was not alone. There was a patient, chest open, heart beating slowly. There should have been sound. The heart monitor should have been beeping in synch with the heart. There should have been sounds of life, air movement, clicking of the respirator, but there was nothing. Toby heard nothing, felt nothing, and could only see the open surgical field in front of him. What was he doing here? What was the surgery? Who was the patient, and what was he supposed to do?

  Looking at the patient, another soldier, still in his uniform, cut open to reveal the chest cavity. Heart still beating. Slower. There should be sound, people… something. Toby tried to move his hand down to the surgical field, but it was hard, the air was thick, slowed his movements like running in water. Where is everybody?

  Glancing upward, Toby saw a glass front observation gallery. They didn't build those anymore, did they? He hadn't seen one since Medical School. There's someone there, fuzzy and indistinct… Who?

  The image swirled, cleared, and went into focus. It was Victoria, little Billy and Sally, in the yellow dress he'd bought for her eighth birthday. That wasn't right, Sally was older, married, had her own children and Billy was overseas. But there she was, just like at her party, hair in pigtails, arm and knee pads, holding a soccer ball. They were pointing, shouting, but Toby couldn't hear them through the glass. They were pointing at the patient on the table.

  Toby turned toward the patient. Billy. It was Billy on the table, chest open, bleeding, heart beating, slowing. Toby could see Billy's face; his eyes were open, staring. His mouth was open, screaming… but no sound was coming out.

  It all materialized around him; the noise, the crowd, the smell of blood. He felt dread. Monitors beeped Alarms sounded their blood chilling wail. A nurse was at his elbow, the room was crowded. The Chief of Surgery was telling the students and residents that they needed to leave now. It the distance, someone was screaming. The beeping stopped and a new alarm sounded.

  "Doctor, he's going into arrest." Toby heard the nurse but he still couldn't move. Everyone was staring at him and Billy was dying and someone was screaming… and it was him.

  Toby sat up in the bed with a start. His mouth was open as if to scream. Instead of that, though, he simply exhaled sharply. The sheets beneath him were damp and clinging with sweat. There was faint sound of surf. He
'd had to start using the noise generator when the nightmares got worse. He looked at the clock. 3:30—oh-dark-thirty as Billy would call it. Billy. This time it was Billy, that was new.

  He had rounds at six and needed to be in his office by five-thirty, so he might as well get up now. He'd get on the computer and send Billy a text before he showered. It was… he picked up his watch from the nightstand, pressed the dual time zone button and read the illuminated face… afternoon for Billy. He'd be busy until later, but at least it wasn't the middle of his night.

  Toby sat for a moment on the edge of his bed. In one of those meaningless thought-clearing rituals, he ran his hands a couple of times through his short hair. He turned on the small lamp on the stand. It was very dim, just enough to see the outline of the bedroom furniture so that he didn't wake Janine when he had midnight shift or early rounds. He snorted. Not that it was a problem now. He wouldn't be waking Jany… and hadn't for several months.

  Small night lights throughout the house kept the darkness at bay and allowed him to get to the kitchen without bumping in to anything. Declining to turn on the overhead, he fixed a cup of coffee by the dim lighting—everything was where he left it, and the power to the machine remained on at all times, since he never knew when he'd need to wake up and go to work on an accident victim or trauma case. Surgeons lived on caffeine, they'd set up an IV drip in the OR if allowed. Nicotine, too, usually, but he'd given that up after his heart attack scare three years ago. Into the computer room. Jany refused to call it an office even though she'd put in his-and-hers desks. The monitor was too bright for his dark-adapted eyes, but he waited a few moments for them to adjust, sent the text to Billy, checked for overnights from the residents and headed to the shower.

  Even though he'd taken his time getting ready, and in the dark, to boot, he left the house by 4:30 AM. The drive in to the medical center was uneventful; it was still too early for much traffic. There was a video billboard just before the turnoff to the hospital. It was bright and eye-catching in the pre-dawn twilight. Toby grunted at the news headline displayed: “Scientists warn: New comet on close approach to Earth.” It was always like that, Toby thought, new comet will be brighter than ever… oops, new comet fizzled and no one can see it even with a telescope.

  He was in his office by five AM; the lack of traffic had helped. An hour reading the residents' case notes, a new article on surgical robotics, and some departmental emails took him to time for rounds. He'd donned his white coat and joined the group of medical students and residents visiting each of his patients.

  Standing in the hospital room, he listened silently as a student nervously presented the chief complaint. “The p-patient presented with abdominal p-pain, blood tests w-were incon…inconclusive, b-but abdominal ultrasound and CT were consistent with diverticulitis. There was evidence of leakage and possible rupture…” The student continued with the surgical findings and treatment plan for the patient. Toby gave a slight smile and nodded as she demonstrated a clear understanding of the particular challenges presented by the patient. The Chief Resident continued with the questions to both patient and student while Toby watched and observed. Good kid, gaining confidence as she goes. Toby thought.

  Toby was not a particularly demonstrative person—he preferred quiet correction to outbursts of anger. During a minor surgical procedure in the outpatient clinic, a first-year resident got confused and closed an incision with the wrong type of stitches. The Chief Resident was preparing to yell at the inexperienced doctor, but Toby merely whispered “not in front of the patient” and stepped in to fix the wound closure.

  “Have you ever seen how a plastic surgeon does a subcutaneous suture?” he asked both doctors. When they both responded in the negative, he winked at the patient and replied “Watch this, then. You'll like how this heals up with minimal scarring,” and proceeded to instruct both residents while calmly reassuring the patient.

  As he was leaving the clinic later, Toby overheard the senior resident talking to the younger one. “See why I try to get his shift?” and he hid a smile behind a false cough.

  Even if there was disagreement even with a colleague, he preferred to move to an available conference area and calmly discuss with all parties involved rather than allow argument in front of patients, family or even other colleagues. Most of his students and colleagues knew that the only sign of stress or anger they were likely to see out of him was when he started rubbing his hands back and forth across his scalp and through his buzz-cut hair. He always did his best to keep any pressure he was feeling under control…and inside.

  The conference room door, just off the surgical floor, opened. Standing at the door, the Chief of Surgery, Johannes Geuiszlerr motioned and asked, “Tobias. Do you have a minute?” The German accent made it sound like an order.

  Johannes Geuiszlerr had started his education in a very strict German medical college, and never called him just 'Toby.' It was always 'Tobias' even though Geuiszlerr himself insisted on being called 'John.' Toby had known the Chief of Surgery for years, though, and they'd become good friends. Geuiszlerr's mode of address no longer struck him as being formal, but more of an affected habit.

  “Just a moment, John, let me check on the afternoon appointments.” He checked the schedule entries on his phone—at least 40 minutes until he needed to be in the outpatient clinic. “Sure, I've got probably thirty minutes.”

  “Good. Let's use my office.” Geuiszlerr led the way to the corner office in back, while larger than the others, it was still rather plain—functional, rather than ostentatious—much like Toby's own. The two of them were alike in many respects, and Toby was pretty certain that he knew what John wanted to discuss.

  “John, if this is about…” he started as Geuiszlerr closed the office door.

  “Actually, I was going to tell you that the Dean gave his approval for internal funding of Phase Three. What did you think I wanted?” Geuiszlerr sat behind the desk, looked intently at Toby and raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh. Well, I figured Jany had called you again. I swear I can't get her to stop tapping into the security logs. I'm not her problem anymore, she made that very clear.”

  “Now that you mention it, Tobias, I have heard from her, but only because Liese had lunch with Janine last Friday. She is still concerned, you know. From what my wife tells me, your wife believes you are still having recurring nightmares.” Geuiszlerr started looking through the papers on his desk, clearly searching for something.

  “Ex-wife, John, she's not my wife anymore.” Toby crossed his arms and glared at his superior until John looked up from his search.

  “Ah, that's not quite true, Tobias. I happen to know that Janine has not actually filed anything yet. Liese does not gossip, but she knows when to tell me everything I need to know about my surgeons.”

  Toby looked away as John returned his stare with the exact same intensity. He started to brush one hand through his hair, pushing down on the short stubble, moving it back and forth like the bristles on a brush. He looked down at the two business cards his superior held in his hands. “Close enough, it's just a matter of time. So what's that?” he nodded toward the cards.

  John looked down, almost as if in surprise at what he held. “Oh, these. One is someone to whom you should talk. I do not wish to discover that you are writing prescriptions for yourself.” Toby tried to protest, but John waved it off and handed Toby one of the cards. “You would not be the first to decide that medication works for the doctor as well as the patient. The other is a message from General Odle, who wants to see you next week. You must promise to do the first before I will give you the second.”

  Toby thought a moment. “And if it's Phase Three that is responsible for the other?”

  “Then you will need to see our friend first, before you see the General,” Geuiszlerr said. “You must promise me in any event. I am concerned about you, Tobias. You should go take some time at my cabin. Walk in the woods and sit by the stream. Maybe bait and toss a hook,
too. It would do you well.”

  "I understand," replied Toby. He paused again, then reached for the cards. "I promise. After surgery tomorrow I don't have clinic for two days. I will see if he can fit me in, then we'll see about the General. As for the other…well…we'll see."

  The schedule of a trauma surgeon was never entirely predictable. Where possible, the Surgical Service scheduled planned surgical procedures for a single day of the week for their surgeons, with two clinical days and two on-call days to handle the aforementioned emergencies. Too many calls came in late in the day or in the middle of the night asking for Toby to come in and patch up an accident victim transported to University Medical Center for immediate treatment. Today was a 'standard' surgical day for Toby with the first of four surgeries scheduled to start at seven AM.

  After his now customary jolting wake-up, Toby tried to get a few hours more sleep before heading into the hospital. Despite having forgotten his promise to John Geuiszlerr a week ago, Toby had decided to moderate the balance between sleep and caffeine. Even though his primary job was to direct the microsurgical robots, he still occasionally needed to actually wield a scalpel. Still, the temptation to write a 'scrip for nicotine patches was growing, particularly since he found himself getting irritated at the higher than normal traffic on his drive in. As it was, he almost missed the news headline before his exit: "Comet Slowing, Scientists Can't Explain."

  He let the residents handle most of the patient rounds this morning as he checked the case notes for today's procedures: microvascular repair—post-amputation; microvascular repair—amputation sparing; tissue repair with microvascular complications—gastrointestinal; myocardial repair. Without even looking at the history-and-physical, he could just about categorize the cases: soldier, one each—well, the first two anyway, the third could have been an unfortunate civilian catching a gunshot, and the fourth could be a heart attack. He knew that one from personal experience. On the other hand, since the surgeries were scheduled and not emergencies, they were probably soldiers. Ever since the Army had supported his development of the nanosurgical robots, he'd become their principal referral surgeon. The fact that his hospital was practically next door to a major staging base for deploying and returning troops played a role as well.