by Sean O'Brien
It was not surprising the woman knew Jene. Ship was not so populous that the community did not know itself well—and an influential personage such as Jene would be known to nearly all on board.
The station administrator, however, was one of the few women unknown to Jene. “Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I only just changed over to fem. You probably knew me when I was…”—the woman hesitated, as if in distaste—”…male. My name is Yale now. How can we help you?”
Jene looked at Yale, admiring the work. Jene hadn’t done her conversion, but one of her colleagues must have. It looked like a good job.
“I need some band time. On your opinion channel.”
Yale nodded. “Sure. Let me just check the transmission schedule, all right?” She looked away for a moment, obviously accessing the biocomp implant all colonists wore. Jene had never liked her own and rarely used it. Yale looked back at Jene and said, “We can put it on opinion channel ninety immediately. Does that suit you?”
“Is there any way to get me on the news channel instead of opinion?” At Yale’s hesitation, Jene quickly added, “You could call it a medical services update.”
Yale sucked air through her teeth. “Sorry, Doctor. To do that we need Council permission.”
Jene blinked. “The Council oversees the news channel?”
“Well, yes,” Yale said, chagrined. “But we have over one hundred opinion and free access channels.”
Jene started to argue that Ship’s official news channel was the only one that mattered but thought better of it. Yale and her compatriots were doing the best they could, and Jene appreciated it. She nodded at Yale. “Channel ninety will be fine.”
“Great. Did you want to record your opinion now?”
“I would, but I would like to do it text/speech only. No e-photo.” Jene knew she was in no state for emotional photography—in her anger, she would drown the image in hate-filled reds and violets, and her rational message would be lost.
“Certainly. Go on ahead to the recording booths, then, and follow the instructions,” Yale said, pointing. “If you need any help, just ask.”
“Thanks. Oh, Yale?”
“Yes?”
“I’m curious—who did your conversion?”
“Oh, Doctor U’Ulanee.”
Jene nodded.
“I thought I’d better get it done now, before planetfall, you know. No chance then.” Yale said brightly.
“What do you mean?”
Yale blinked at her. “Why, medical services will be on a needs-only basis then, right?”
Jene nodded slowly. “I suppose so.”
“So, anyway, I got it now while I still can. I certainly wouldn’t want to take away doctors’ time with such a…well, frivolous procedure after planetfall. There are plenty of kids who will need attention more than I will.”
Jene smiled. “I agree. I think you made the right choice.”
Yale smiled back. “Thanks. Anyway, just through there.” She pointed again and accessed her biocomp, looking into nothingness.
Jene entered the tiny recording booth and read the instructions on the screen. Essentially, she was to just talk into the screen and the studio techs would edit out any area she wished in post-production. It couldn’t be simpler for a layperson such as herself.
Jene took a deep breath and started her prepared speech. “My name is Doctor Jene Halfner, and I have grave news to report.” She paused, then continued.
“As you all know, we are nearing our destination and will arrive within four months. Preparations have been in progress for the better part of a year, and I am happy to report that all medical procedures are proceeding well ahead of schedule and without a glitch. We in the medical field have served our Ship well so far and will continue to do so once we achieve planetfall. There are those, however, who doubt that the medical community of Ship will be equal to the task of maintaining quality care for all of us when we transfer to Epsilon Eridani Three.
“You should be told the truth. We will all have to accept the fact that there will be changes in medical services. I anticipate it will take two years to return to our current level of medical availability.
“I cannot deny that there will be a significant alteration in medical priorities. Still, it is my firm belief that no one who needs medical attention should be turned away. It is true, however, that high-maintenance individuals will demand and receive more attention than those seeking less critical care. In some cases, it may happen that minor inconveniences will be temporarily ignored while more critical, life-threatening conditions are treated to the best of our ability. Ask yourself: are you willing to tolerate your arthritis for a bit so that a child with a defective heart receives a synthetic one and therefore lives to become a productive member of our new colony? Can you self-treat your diabetes for a little while so a young girl can replace her bone marrow to defeat hemophilia? I do not think any of the healthy members of this Ship would begrudge care to the unfortunate sick ones.
“Your Council disagrees. It is the view of the Council that the upcoming debarkation will prove too difficult and that we must take steps now to abandon our care of the infirm. Your Council feels that it is not the responsibility of the strong to help the weak. Look up at the sunrod. Behind it lies the Council Chamber, where the government floats in null-g and proposes we abandon the social structure of communal living in favor of a hierarchy. You make your own guess who will occupy the highest places in the hierarchy.
“We are nearing the end of a one-hundred-year-long journey. Those who put this voyage in motion sacrificed much to get us here. Generations One and Two knew they would live and die on board Ship, never seeing either the planet they came from or the one they were going to. They paid a price higher than what I am asking all of us to pay in the future. We have a difficult road to travel, shipmates, but we can walk it together. And we must carry those who cannot walk so they may bask in the warm glow of a new sun with us. I believe in all of you, and I know we will do the right thing. Thank you and good bye.”
She pressed the panel marked “end recording” with a flourish. She regretted not using e-photography; her rage had dissolved and the thrill of public speaking had replaced it. She exited the booth and waved to Yale in the outer offices. “Thank you again, Yale.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, Doctor.”
Jene nodded and went to work, pleased with herself.
* * *
Jene was walking through the cafeteria the next day, intending to grab a quick bite of something before returning to the mountain of paperwork she had to deal with, when she heard her name mentioned in conversation. She turned automatically to see three students, two of whom she did not recognize, sitting at a table nearby. All three looked pointedly in different directions, but not quite fast enough—Jene saw that they had been looking at her.
She hesitated, then approached the trio. One of the three was Sander Calderon, a promising young Gen Four medical student whom Jene had had in class the previous semester.
“Did you need something, Sander?” Jene asked the young man.
“Oh, uh, no, ma’am,” he said. Jene saw the other two students glaring at him, prompting him with their eyes. Sander swallowed and added, “We were just talking about the, uh, posting you made yesterday.”
Pleased, Jene asked, “May I sit down?”
The three students hurriedly made room for her and she slid into the fourth chair.
Sander looked at his companions, then turned to Jene and said, “We were just saying that we agreed with you.”
“You do?” Jene nodded. “Why is that? You’re not in my class, Sander. There’s no need to keep me buttered up.”
Sander laughed nervously. “No, ma’am. It’s just that…well….” He looked desperately at one of the other students, who broke in forcefully.
“Doctor Halfner, we want you to know that we have been thinking along the same line
s recently. But we wanted to ask you—do you really think the Council will go so far as to propose, well, euthanasia?” The student whispered the last word.
Jene leaned in and asked, “What’s your name?”
The student hesitated a fraction of a second, then answered, “Delores.”
“Well, Delores, if by that you mean they will systematically go door to door killing people, then of course not. But what they propose is essentially the same thing.” Jene turned to look at Sander and the other student. “You have a different opinion?”
The other female student said, “Well, I don’t want to criticize, Doctor….”
“Please do. Your name is?”
“Aunda. I mean, first of all, how do we really know the Council will do what you say? I’m not saying you’re lying to us, Doctor,” Aunda said quickly, “but I have never heard them say anything like that.”
Jene nodded. “I can see why you would want to believe the best of your Council. But be assured that I know what I am talking about.” Jene looked around the table, hoping her position in the hospital’s informal hierarchy would lend weight to her words.
Aunda did not look convinced. “Well, all right. But that raises another point. Even if they propose what you say they will, is that so bad? I mean, why shouldn’t we take a look at the way we do things and—”
“You’re not serious,” Sander said, rounding on Aunda. “You mean you agree with them?”
“I didn’t say that, necessarily. It’s just that—”
“You think we should judge if a person lives based on how lucky they were to escape genetic damage?” Delores said angrily. Jene saw Aunda’s eyes dart from left to right. She was sitting between the two other students. Despite the geography of the table and the double-team she was being subjected to, she held her ground.
“I just think we should examine the Council’s position. Maybe they have something.”
Jene stood up. “Well, I think you three have enough to talk about. I’ll leave you to it.”
They murmured goodbyes. As Jene walked away, she heard the argument start up again. Sander and Delores spoke in indignant tones at their companion. Jene had a momentary feeling of unease at leaving the third student, Aunda, to her certain defeat—it didn’t seem fair to her. But the feeling passed, and Jene continued on her way to the vending machines.
The next few days at the hospital were unusually hectic. A string of nagging injuries and minor complaints kept Jene busy, working well past her normal hours every night. There were always such injuries, as some of the younger set engaged in dangerous sports and other distractions quietly encouraged by the Council. Pseudo-gladiatorial games involving real person-to-person combat were broadcast weekly across the Ship comweb. Jene didn’t watch them, but she saw the results every now and then as a combatant was rushed to her hospital.
She understood the Council’s official position on the games: people need conflict, and in the absence of natural conflicts they would create their own. Ship could not afford to have even the smallest of internal skirmishes, so the Council created artificial ones. It all sounded perfectly rational, but Jene couldn’t help feeling it was like Imperial Rome in its brutality and crass disdain for the plebeians for whom the Games existed. Still, Jene would not begrudge care to any of the Gen Four and even Five patients that came into her hospital, no matter how or why they came to her. She simply healed.
“So, did you at least win?” Jene asked the young Gen Four sportsman who fought to keep his face stoic despite the pain of his dislocated shoulder. His curiass and helmet lay on the ground next to him, but he still wore his leggings.
“No,” he said. “Lost in the last few seconds.”
“Oh, well. You’ll get them next time. Now, hold still. This is going to hurt a bit.” Jene nodded to her assistant, who held the young man down while she pulled steadily on his arm. The young man gasped but kept his composure, and Jene felt and heard his shoulder pop back into place.
“All better. We’ll get another scan before I talk to you about rehab. You’ll be playing again in no time.”
“This was the last game,” he said, looking at her with faint distaste.
“Oh? Well, next season, then.”
“No, this was the last game. Ever. We won’t play anymore after we get to the planet.”
“Why not?”
The young man stared at her for a moment, then said with poorly concealed anger, “Because our league director saw your posting on channel ninety. He says that we have to make up new sports so we don’t get hurt.”
“Oh,” Jene said. “Well, I’m sure you can think of some new games to play.”
“Maybe,” he grumbled. Jene made a few notes on his chart, then started to leave. The youngster called out, “Hey, Doctor, can I ask you something?”
Jene nodded.
“Is it true that if I get sick on the planet you won’t help me because I’m not…one of those kids? The ones with the special problems?”
“No, that’s not true at all. Who’s been telling you that?” Jene said, her eyes narrowing.
“No one. My friends and me were talking, that’s all. And my dad. I saw two kids in my school get in a fight about it.” He grinned at the memory.
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s all we talk about at school now.” He paused, then said in a bright voice, “Hey! Can I get out of school with this arm?”
Jene smiled. “No, sir. You can still go to school.” She patted his good arm and left as he swore under his breath. She walked the short distance to her office and found herself thinking about the young man’s words. Only three days had passed since her posting, and it sounded like a growing number of people were interested in what she had to say. Jene entered her office in good humor and sat down to work. She had only been there a short time when she heard footsteps approaching.
“Doctor Halfner. Need to talk.” Sorensen said, sauntering in.
She looked up and focused her eyes on him. “Oh, go away, Sorensen. I don’t have time.”
“Quite a stir you’ve created,” he said, surveying the surroundings.
Jene shrugged. “So?”
“New game plan, Doctor. You stay out of politics.”
Jene snorted. “Yeah? And why should I do that?”
“Consider it a request from the Council.”
“Yes? Well, you know what you can do with your request.”
Sorensen didn’t reply immediately. When he finally did, his voice had lowered almost to a whisper. “You do not fully understand the…resolve of the Council in this matter, Doctor. I urge you, with all possible force, to remain out of Ship politics henceforth.”
Jene was taken aback. She didn’t know why she was unsettled by Sorensen’s answer. It was one of the only times she had heard him speak in complete sentences. Still, she found the courage to challenge him.
“Or what?”
“Good day, Doctor,” he said, turned, and left.
Jene was still staring at the space where he had been when one of her assistants entered her office with a report for her to initial.
“Everything okay?” The young man asked.
“What? Oh, yes. Fine.” Jene looked at the report, her mind still on the encounter. The young intern had to tap the spot where Jene was to initial before she saw it herself.
“Thanks, Doctor Halfner. Oh, by the way, your partner called. He said it’s nothing serious, but he’d like to talk to you at your earliest convenience.”
“Thanks.” Jene waited until the intern had left, then called Renold on his biocomp.
“Yes?”
“It’s Jene. What’s the matter?”
“I had a call today on my biocomp. From the Council. They wanted me to talk to you and try to keep you out of their business, as they put it.” Renold’s voice was calm as always—and that angered Jene almost as much as the Council’s actions.
“Did they threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“How, then?”
“They made it clear that if you were to continue in your public opposition to the Council, they would not be able to guarantee your safety from fringe elements.”
“Fringe elements?”
“Their term, not mine.”
“There aren’t any fringe elements in Ship. Not any, at least, that would get involved in this kind of thing.” Jene thought briefly of the Society of Life, which advocated that E.E. not be tampered with or terraformed in any way, but she could not see how such a group would cause her harm personally. Besides, they only numbered in the twenties and were largely harmless.
“I agree. As I said, the Council made their meaning clear enough,” Renold said evenly.
“This is because of the posting I made.” Jene had an impulse to ask, “Kuarta still at school?” She felt her pulse quicken.
“Yes.”
Again, a surge of rage at her partner’s stoicism threatened to burst out of her. Their daughter might be in danger, and he was just—
“I’ll go to the school and retrieve her,” Renold said. Jene let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“No, I will. I love you,” she said, surprising herself.
“And I, you. I will talk to you soon.” He disconnected.
Jene stared at the dead comm panel for a moment, then turned to go. As she did, a thought struck her. She couldn’t tell if the thought was merely a product of her growing concern for her family, and therefore ultimately groundless, or if it represented a real possibility:
What if the comm line had been tapped?
She had to admit, it sounded silly. Like one of the thrillers Gerd Taylur published on the Ship library every few months. But she also had to admit that the current Council was capable of such a feat—both from an engineering standpoint and an ethical one.
As if in a dream, she told her scheduling computer she would be off for the rest of the day. She had accumulated sufficient favors from other workers and from the computer itself to call some of them in now. With a growing sense of urgency bordering on panic, Jene left the hospital and, still in her uniform, grabbed one of the public bicycles.
