I pulled open Anthony’s file and skimmed through it. Twenty years old. Overweight by Corps standards, but reasonably fit for a civilian. Excellent dentition and bone health, the best a billionaire’s son could buy. Neurotransmitters all in optimum range, cardiovascular efficiency in the eightieth percentile for civilians of his age range. Therapeutic nanos . . . “Damn, he’s a NoNan.”
Santana nodded. “He refused to accept his nano injection. The admitting nurse insisted, and Holmes fired him.”
“Fired him? Can he do that?”
“No, Doctor. Chief Carver stepped in and explained that the chief medical doctor has authority in all medical personnel decisions. But by the time that was settled, we were far behind on our passenger screening. The chief said we should deal with Holmes later.”
I sighed. “And this is later.” I tapped the “Contact” button on Anthony’s file.
A few seconds later the channel opened, showing a young blond man with well-coiffed curls and an expensive smile. His face was on the heavy side of average, and his eyes were bright blue. “Hey, this is Anthony, what’s up?” The voice was young, cheery, and didn’t sound at all like a troublemaker’s. I hoped this was all just a misunderstanding.
“Mr. Holmes, this is Dr. Baldwin—”
“Doctor.” Anthony interrupted me. I hate being interrupted, and it didn’t make me any happier when his cheer was replaced by an edge. “I expected this call. I’ve made my decision, so you’re wasting your time.”
I swore under my breath, remembering my bedside manner for difficult patients. Then I continued, “I respect that, Mr. Holmes, but they pay me to waste my time. Could you please visit my office after boosting so that we can discuss your treatment options?”
“Treatment?” He laughed, and then he sneered. It turned his pleasant face into something uglier. “I don’t need that ‘treatment,’ Doctor. I’ve done my research. And I’m busy after boost. We’re holding a launch party. You’re welcome to join us, but you’re not going to change my mind.”
I shook my head. “Mr. Holmes, I have to be on duty for any injuries that come up in boost. It would be a lot easier if you could come here.”
“Sorry, Doc, I just don’t have the time.” And he clicked off.
Damn! Save me from self-educated “experts” who think they’re doctors.
But before I could get any angrier about Anthony, Chief Carver’s face came up on the ship-wide comm. “Attention, all department heads: departure boost in fifteen minutes. Secure your areas. Departure boost in fifteen minutes. Level 1 boost alert.”
Level 1: not even a quarter G, just enough to correct our course and inject us into our cycler orbit to Mars. I had trained all the way to level 5 in the academy. You would think level 1 would be a breeze, but because no one took it seriously, ships usually had more injuries at level 1 due to loose objects that no one had secured.
Not on the Aldrin. When the boost horn sounded, I kept an eye on the med feed on my desk, watching for red lights indicating injuries; but the board stayed green. Aames’s crew didn’t leave loose ends.
For nine minutes, the big fusion engines burned. Between the spin and the boost, the “gravity” pushed toward the aft curve of the outer wall. Passengers were strapped in, but boost-certified crew could move around as duties required.
At the end of nine minutes, the boost horn sounded again, and Carver returned to the comm as the boost ended. “All hands, we’re clear of boost. All personnel are free to move around.” He grinned and signed off.
I checked the medical board again: still green across the desktop. I flipped to my office status view. Everything was fully stocked, we had no patients in the infirmary, and all our paperwork was up to date.
I was still steamed, but I had a job to do; and no matter how I searched, I could find no excuse to delay any longer. So I headed to the passenger lounge and to Mr. Holmes’s party.
It was easy to find Anthony in the lounge. The kid was heir to several billions, no matter what currency you measured in; and that much money generates its own gravitational field, drawing in a crowd of sycophants and a ring of nervous corporate bodyguards. I pitied the guards: no one could miss them in those ochre uniforms. I was glad we wore the grays of the Space Corps instead of those awful things. The kid and his crowd were a marked contrast to all of us: they wore a wide range of civilian attire. The kid himself was in a blue silk shirt and darker-blue slacks, both designer fashions. That outfit probably cost more than I would make that month.
I had to show my ID for scanning before the guards would let me within sight of Anthony, and they wouldn’t let me any closer until they confirmed with him. A guard approached him, whispered in his ear, and pointed at me. Anthony nodded and waved me over.
I stood beside him, and he said, “Have a seat, Doc.” I looked around his table but saw no place to sit. A crowd of passengers, young men and women bound for the Mars mission, occupied every seat. I just looked pointedly at them, and Anthony added, “Folks, can you give me a minute to consult with my doctor?” The passengers quickly stood and made room, and I sat down. Anthony held out a plate of little crusty buns that were maybe a couple centimeters across. “Pão de queijo? It’s some Brazilian cheese bread.” He gestured to one of the guards, a tall, bald, ebony-skinned man with a serious look. “Chuks, get the lady a drink.”
The guard scowled—at Anthony, not at me—and I shook my head, holding up my hand. “I’m on duty.”
Anthony laughed. “Doctor, it’s all right. Dad won’t mind.”
I frowned and narrowed my eyes. “I don’t answer to your dad, Mr. Holmes. The Corps rules are very clear. Now please, this is not a social call. I’m very concerned. You’re at risk for muscle and bone loss, and also for low-level radiation effects. These are easy to avoid, but we really need to set up an appointment for your therapy nanos.”
He picked up his glass and took a long drink. The glazed look in those blue eyes told me it wasn’t his first. “Sorry to waste your time, Doc. Not gonna happen.”
“My name is Dr. Baldwin.” My voice was chill. Then I remembered that getting angry would make things worse, so I aimed for a lighter tone. “Let me assure you, the therapy is perfectly safe.”
Anthony slammed down his glass, displaying his lack of space reflexes: the liquid in the glass lagged behind, then splashed to the bottom, and splattered out all over him and the table. “Shit!” Anthony said. From nowhere, another guard appeared with a napkin and started sopping up the mess. Ignoring the guard, Anthony continued, “Safe? I’ve read the NoNan reports, Doctor. Your ‘therapy nanos’ are associated with higher incidences of rheumatoid arthritis, schizophrenia, insomnia, peripheral neuropathy.” He continued with the usual litany of unconnected symptoms, ticking them off on his fingers. He covered every one I had ever heard of, plus a few new ones.
I knew better than to interrupt a NoNan zealot in mid-zeal; though I wanted to tell him what an idiot he was, I let him ramble on until he ran out. Then, in my calmest, most reasonable voice, I responded, “Mr. Holmes, those ‘reports’ are pseudoscience promoted by celebrities trying to stay relevant and entertainment ‘doctors’ who know more about audience ratings than medical research. The NoNan literature has been discredited by every scientist who has reviewed it. I can assure you that the reputable studies do not show any significant correlation between therapy nanos and any of those symptoms.”
Anthony shook his head. “‘Studies’ funded by the companies that manufacture nanos. What’s your cut, Doc? How much do you get for jabbing me?” He grinned as he said that, but he was pushing my limits.
“Mr. Holmes, take your accusations and shove them. If you want a painful death, don’t let me stop you.”
I stood and started to leave, but he grabbed my arm to stop me. “Doc, relax.”
My vision started to go red, and I felt my temple throbbing. I yanked my arm away and raised my voice so the whole room could hear. “Keep your hands to yourself, asshole, if you don’t
want them broken. Boss’s brat or not.” Anthony let go, but the dark-skinned bodyguard moved to stop me. He was a head taller than me, and in very good shape, but I fixed him with the glare I had learned to use on hospital lawyers. “Out of my way, or I’ll see you in the infirmary.” He stepped aside, and I stormed out for my office.
But I didn’t get far down the passageway before I heard a deep voice calling, “Dr. Baldwin.”
Still too angry to stop or turn back, I kept marching. I heard feet hurrying behind me, and I tensed, expecting someone to grab me and try to stop me. Relax, Connie, you’ll take their head off.
But my pursuer was smarter than that: a flash of ochre clothes and dark skin swept past me, climbing halfway up the wall. In one smooth motion and without ever touching me, the tall guard had leaped in front of me. Despite his bit of acrobatics, he wasn’t even breathing hard. He stood there, full of wiry energy, and that ochre uniform wasn’t the least mussed. He almost made that color look good. Almost.
The guard held out a hand to stop me. “Doctor, please wait.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Chuks, is it?”
He straightened and smiled. “Major Adika, Chukwunwike Adika. Only my friends call me Chuks.” He had a nice smile, but then it fell. “And overprivileged billionaire’s sons. I have the honor of leading young Mr. Holmes’s security detail.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m really sorry, Major Adika. You’ll notice he grabbed me. I never laid a finger on him. I lost my temper, but I’m not a threat to Mr. Holmes.” As long as he keeps his hands to himself.
The major nodded. “We had scanned you for weapons. Our bio-scans had read your heart rate and blood pressure, and our thermal sensors showed no significant increase in activity in your limbic system, so we judged you as nonthreatening.” And then the major’s smile returned. “But if in your anger you had slapped the young mister, we might not have noticed, officially. Some of us believe that the young mister gets away with too much because people want something from him. And his father, the brilliant businessman, has a blind spot where his son is involved.” Then the smile turned to a broad, likable grin. “Should I ever choose to resign in style, I might slap him myself.”
I had been prepared for another type of confrontation. My pulse had been racing. But the major’s humor relaxed me. There was a lot more to this man than muscle. “Thank you, Major. That helps. Did you follow me just to apologize?”
“It is not right for a professional such as yourself to be treated so. An apology was required.” His voice had a hint of an accent, and his word choice was rather formal. I suspected English was not his first language. “But no, that was only part of my reason. Doctor, is Mr. Holmes really at risk?”
I nodded. “You’ve had your therapy nanos. Were they explained to you?”
“Doctor, I and my team were selected for this detail because we all have space experience. Mr. Holmes Sr. wants us ready for any risk to his son. We all have been briefed on therapy nanos. But young Mr. Holmes’s sources—”
“Are a bunch of quacks and kooks and attention-seekers who might get him killed. They play off the public’s lack of science skills to inflame ridiculous fears. Those fears are harmless on Earth; but here and on Mars, therapy nanos are his best defense against a number of general metabolic ailments. I can’t guarantee those will be fatal, but the risks are high. Unacceptably high, in my medical opinion. He risks decreased bone density and muscle tissue loss due to the low gravity, and cumulative effects of low-level cosmic radiation in open space. He’ll survive, probably, but he risks painful, permanent injuries. And death can’t be ruled out. Angry as he made me, I still can’t put him through that without a fight.”
The major added, “And if he gets injured or sick, you will have to put up with him in your infirmary.” I laughed at that, and the last of my tension slipped away. He laughed as well—a good, deep, hearty laugh—and then continued, “Doctor, if you tell me his life is at stake, I will sit on young Mr. Holmes while you give him the injections.” The major’s grin grew. “I might even enjoy it.”
I grinned back. The major should’ve been a doctor. He had a talent for putting people at ease.
But then I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I wish I could, but regulations and my code of ethics forbid me from performing invasive therapy on an informed, competent patient who refuses it. His behavior aside, Holmes is competent. Legally.”
His face turned solemn, every muscle standing out in frustration. “Then I do not know what to do, Doctor. You cannot treat him, and I cannot protect him if he refuses to allow it.”
By then I had decided how I would deal with the problem: I would pass the buck. It was a corporate political problem as much as a medical problem. “Let’s let the captain deal with this. Perhaps he can persuade Holmes Sr., and then Holmes Sr. can persuade Junior.”
The major looked doubtful. “No one has persuaded young Mr. Holmes against his will in years.”
But I didn’t see any other option, so I tapped the captain’s icon on my comm.
Captain Aames’s face appeared on the comm screen on my sleeve. He still had that casual air, almost—almost—slovenly in contrast to the alert bearing of Major Adika. But rank hath its privileges: if the captain wanted to be casual, it was his command.
His tone, however, was just as sharp as I remembered. “Dr. Baldwin, I hear you had an altercation in the passenger lounge. Do I need to rule that off limits to you? Do I have to worry that you’ll assault someone again? Or can you behave as a respectable officer of this ship?”
“Captain, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”
“What I don’t need to hear, Doctor, are excuses. I have three complaints from Anthony Holmes: two about your behavior and one about his missing security chief. I don’t need trouble with the boss right at this moment, nor with his son. Can you skip the excuses and explain yourself?”
So I explained everything that had happened. Occasionally I looked up at Major Adika for confirmation, and each time he was watching me carefully and nodding as I went. His intense stare unnerved me even more than the captain’s glare.
I was careful not to gloss over anything, avoiding anything that might sound like an excuse; but when I was done, the captain snapped, “Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then the captain leaned in toward the camera and raised his voice a notch. “And you chose to discuss a patient’s private medical matters over an open comm in the middle of a public passageway where anyone could overhear? Do you know how much trouble Anthony could make with a breach of privacy claim? Why didn’t you come to me in person?”
I clenched my fists, out of view of the camera, but not of Major Adika. He waved both hands palms down in a calming gesture, and that gave me just enough control to keep going. “Captain, you said you never wanted to see me on your bridge.”
Captain Aames looked upward and snorted. “I’m not on the bridge, Doctor. I’m quite certain my schedule is posted, and it shows me in my office right now. Did you even bother to check my schedule?”
I swallowed my reply, because I knew he had me. “No, Captain, I did not.”
Then Captain Aames surprised me with his answer: “That’s better, Doctor. The facts. Don’t pretty them up, and damn sure don’t cover them up, and things will go much better here.”
I was confused: ready to fight, and suddenly the fight was gone. Just like with Major Adika. Was I too defensive? Was I looking for trouble?
I would have to think on that later; right now, I seemed to have calmed the captain, and I wanted to build on that. “Understood, Captain. I’ll head to your office immediately.”
“No.” The captain waved that idea away. “It’s too late for that. If privacy has been breached, it’s done already. No, I think I’ll need to clear this up in person, so as not to further antagonize the boss’s son. Wait for me outside the lounge, Doctor.”
By the time Captain Aames reached the passenger lounge, Major Adika had gone back in. T
he captain didn’t say a word to me; he just nodded and entered the lounge. On the doorstep he looked back at me for a moment and motioned with his head: Follow me.
So I followed. The captain strode directly up to Major Adika, presented his badge for scanning, and held his arms away from his side. Again I noted the contrast: the major was coiled energy, watching for trouble and ready to spring, while the captain was casual. Yet the captain was every bit as confident, and his eyes swept the room in the same fashion.
I noticed the major’s aide subtly scanning for weapons as the major rescanned my badge. When the aide nodded, Major Adika let us approach the table. Again all the chairs were occupied by hangers-on; but Captain Aames cleared his throat and stared down at them, and they couldn’t meet his stare. They quickly slipped away, and the captain sat down across from Anthony. I joined them, caught uncomfortably between two men I had already angered once that day. I could feel my anxiety mounting, and with it my temper.
Then a subtle movement caught my attention: Major Adika moved to stand near the table, just outside the circle of conversation but close by if there was any trouble. He stood poised in the low gravity, as if ready to spring, but with his arms lightly crossed in front of himself. He caught my eye and gave me a barely noticeable smile; and just like that, my anxiety blew away on the wind.
The table now held the remnants of a plate of nachos and soy cheese. Damp streaks showed it had been wiped clean at least once, indicating one or more spilled drinks. Anthony had had a few more drinks since I had left, and he was showing the signs. His body mass let him absorb a fair amount of alcohol, but his head was weaving, and his hands were unsteady. He looked at Captain Aames, startled as if he hadn’t noticed our arrival. “Nick! Hey, how’s things on the bridge, Cap? Chuks, we need more drinks here.”
Major Adika didn’t move, and Anthony didn’t notice. He didn’t have time: Captain Aames took control of the conversation. “Mr. Holmes, I understand there was an unfortunate incident between you and Dr. Baldwin earlier.”
The Last Dance Page 3
