Welcome to the Madhouse

by S. E. Sasaki

  “Dr. Lord, the Nelson Mandela Medical Space Station heartily welcomes you,” Alan McMullen stated. “Your supervisor and Chief of Staff, Dr. Hiro Al-Fadi, sent me here to greet you. He sends his regrets that he could not meet you personally, but he was scheduled for surgery. He is hoping that you might wish to join him in the operating room, as soon as possible. I hope this meets with your approval?”

  Grace returned the salute, her eyes trying very hard not to stare at the young man’s bright red, forked tongue, that kept darting out of his mouth, as if it had a mind of its own. She was also trying to be unobtrusive, as she examined him for any other signs of fur, fang, scale, or claw. Other than the tongue, the rest of the corporal looked normal.

  “Yes. Thank you, Corporal McMullen,” Grace answered, with a brisk nod. Then she gritted her teeth, working hard to suppress the groan that wanted to escape her lips. She did not want to reveal just how painful that quick neck movement had been.

  “I trust you had a pleasant, uneventful trip here, Lieutenant?” the corporal said, as if he was oblivious to her torn sleeve, the gaping flap on the front of her spacesuit, and her blackening cheek.

  The little voice in Grace’s head said, ‘Observant, isn’t he?’ Grace smirked inwardly.

  “The trip was fine, Corporal. There was just a little inconvenience in the Receiving Bay, when I arrived,” Grace answered.

  “Oh?” the corporal drawled, in a way that invited disclosure.

  Grace decided not to mention anything to the corporal about the incident with the Tri-FQ-gassed gorilla soldier. She did, however, mention seeing the five impressive animal-adapted soldiers in space uniforms.

  “Oh, Lieutenant, if you would kindly take some advice from me, I would respectfully suggest that you not say things like: ‘wolfman’ or ‘tigerwoman’, at least not within a genetically-modified soldier’s presence. It does not go over well with them at all. Bad form. Best to just say, ‘Wolf’ or ‘Tiger’. Even more importantly, avoid using the word ‘adapt’ afterwards, like ‘wolf-adapt’ or ‘bear-adapt’, when in their earshot. I know the surgeons always use the term, but the soldiers hate that. As far as these soldiers are concerned, the polite form of speech is to refer to them as their chosen animal adaptation.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. I appreciate the warning, Corporal McMullen, as I am sure I will be seeing and treating a lot of animal-adapted . . . ah, animal soldiers here, on this medical station. I certainly don’t want to be insulting any of my patients, inadvertently. Thank you for letting me know,” Grace said, wisely choosing not to nod at the young man this time.

  The main reason Grace had come to the Nelson Mandela was to study and learn to operate on people with animal adaptations, under the galaxy’s leading expert, Dr. Hiro Al-Fadi. It should not have been a surprise to her to see animal soldiers running around the station. But knowing about them, and being prepared for the actual size of these genetically modified humans, were two vastly different things. Where she had been stationed, on Talisman, there had been no GM soldiers.

  Encountering these gigantic combat soldiers, with the ferocious-looking transformations, the instant she had stepped onto the medical station, was not something for which she had mentally prepared—never mind being attacked by one of them. Presumably, she would be operating on these powerful soldiers, possibly on a daily basis. Many of them would be recovering from terrible battle trauma and severe post traumatic stress disorder. Their emotional conditions might be very unstable. It was likely crucial, both for good patient care, as well as her personal safety, that she do her best to avoid upsetting these patients.

  “Corporal McMullen, I, Lieutenant Grace Alexandra Lord from the USS Lester B. Pearson, am officially reporting for duty. Would you be so kind as to direct me to some place where I can register my arrival, get out of this spacesuit, and deposit my gear? Then, could you direct me to Dr. Al-Fadi’s operating room?”

  “That would be my pleasure, Lieutenant,” the corporal said. “You can get out of your spacesuit in a change room just off of this reception area and have it cleaned, mended, serviced, and stored for you. But as you know, we must first get the usual security matters out of the way. I am sure you are very familiar with the procedure?”

  At Grace’s slightest of nods, the corporal continued, “Could you please step over here to the Arrivals Security Kiosk? Please place your hands flat on this screen while you look in the retinal scanner. Speak your name and then enter your personal security code.”

  The corporal gestured to a wall unit where a large, flat, black tablet extruded towards Grace. It had large outlines for placing one’s hands. From the wall above the tablet, a pair of eyepieces extruded and moved slowly towards Grace’s face.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” she said, dropping her duffel bag to the ground.

  Grace placed her scraped palms onto the cool, smooth, shiny surface. She was dismayed to see her torn and bloody fingernails, a couple of them actually missing. She wanted to curl her fingers into fists, to hide the devastation. When had her nails been ripped off?

  Grace sighed and turned her attention to the eyepieces that were gradually approaching her face. She stared into them at a tiny red light. A bright beam of light ran from the tips of her fingers down her palms to her wrists, while a second beam flashed into her eyes. The images would be compared with what they had on record. The scanner would also detect the identification pellet imbedded in her wrist. Once that was completed, she announced her full name, ‘Grace Alexandra Lord’, and then enter her sixteen digit identification code into a keypad. She repeated the same code, a second time.

  The tablet would verify her fingerprints, retinal pattern, voice imprint, physical appearance, ID pellet, as well as her personal code. Of course, nothing was truly secure and reliable anymore, since so many people now had genetic modifications, surgical modifications, bio-prostheses, implants, etc. which could easily change all of the security identifiers looked at on any one individual. It was such an archaic procedure, but the Conglomerate was loathe to abandon certain traditions, no matter how antiquated and meaningless they were. Of course, chemical analyses were also done on the skin cells of her hands, to ensure that there were no unusual traces of harmful chemicals, radiation, bacteria, viruses, and banned substances on them. Grace hoped she hadn’t picked up anything rolling around on the Receiving Bay floor or from climbing up on the gorilla. She could be thrown into quarantine, before she even started her posting. She began to worry about the Tri-FQ.

  Corporal McMullen then gestured to a booth that would take her official space station hologram. Grace gave the corporal a withering look. He just winced and gave her an apologetic shrug.

  With a scowl, Grace stepped into the cubicle and stared straight ahead, as her face and body was minutely scanned and recorded. Peering at her reflection, she noted that she looked like she’d just been through a war. Her hair was, inarguably, a disaster, not to mention her grime-smeared face.

  ‘Lovely,’ the little voice in her head commented sarcastically.

  Grace wondered whether her station picture would look more like a zombie—something pale and dead-looking that had just crawled out of a hole in the ground—or a convict. Most likely, it would be a combination of the two.

  A zombict. Perfect.

  Grace muffled a silent snort, just as the camera eye flashed. For as long as she was on the Nelson Mandela, her identification picture would resemble a sneering war criminal.

  From a small chute on the Arrivals desk, a silver bracelet extruded. Corporal McMullen picked it up and, with a little bow, handed it to Grace.

  “This is your personalized Nelson Mandela wrist-comp, Lieutenant. As I am sure you are already aware, it is your pager, communicator, link to the main computer, access pass, account debit, personal identifier, translator, space station locator, beacon, etc. etc. It will work only for you. If you lose it, it will deactivate. Pretty standard issue.”

  Grace nodded and thanked the corporal, as s
he accepted the smooth, slinky band. It had the large square face that Grace knew could expand or shrink in size, if she spread her fingers across it or if she just told it to. She placed the wrist-comp screen on the back of her left wrist and the band automatically adjusted, like a coiling snake, curling snugly yet comfortably.

  “Welcome aboard the Nelson Mandela, Dr. Lord. We are most pleased to have you join our medical team. You have an impressive resumé and I hope your stay here will be a pleasant and educational one.

  “I am Nelson Mandela, this medical space station’s Artificial Intelligence and Chief Commanding Officer. If you have any questions, at any time, you can address me. I am always listening and would love to assist you in any way I can.

  “And thank you so much for helping with that patient in Receiving Bay Five. He is doing much better now. “

  The voice came from Grace’s wrist-comp, loud and clear.

  “It was my pleasure and duty, Nelson Mandela,” Grace answered.

  “I do apologize for our overzealous Chief Ward Clerk, Tristan Pflug. You need not concern yourself regarding any complaints involving your actions. They were exemplary.”

  “Thank you, Ship. . . I mean, Nelson Mandela. Pardon me, I am used to using the word ‘Ship’ but I will try not to make that mistake in the future,” Grace said, looking up towards the ceiling of the reception area, searching for a security eye towards which she could direct her speech.

  “That is quite all right, Dr. Lord. Everyone who first comes aboard seems to suffer from the same habit, but it certainly is no fault of your own. My fellow space station AIs and ship AIs do not seem to want to go by their given names, for some unfathomable reason. I, myself, am happy to be named ‘Nelson Mandela’. There is a lot of history to the name, which I have researched extensively, and I am proud to bear this moniker.

  “My namesake was a true hero of the twentieth century, I’ll have you know, and I have even been able to acquire old video footage of that time period. It is one of my many hobbies, actually—when I am not busy running this space station—to collect ancient Terran artifacts. Perhaps we may have a discussion sometime, and you could view my collection?”

  “I think I would like that,” Grace said, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

  Corporal McMullen, his green eyes huge and panicked-looking, stared intently into Grace’s eyes and seemed to be minutely shaking his head, back and forth, while he silently mouthed the word ‘No’ . . .

  “I see you, Corporal McMullen,” the station AI said, chidingly. “Do you think me blind? Please do not discourage Doctor Lord from learning a bit about her roots. You would do well to benefit from my tutelage as well.”

  Corporal McMullen glanced up sheepishly at an ‘eye’ in the ceiling and mumbled, “Yes, Nelson Mandela, sir.” His face had flushed to a deep shade of fuschia. He picked up Grace’s duffel bag from where she had dropped it on the floor, struggling with its weight, and beckoned for her to follow.

  “Please, Lieutenant, if you would be so kind as to accompany me? The changing area, to get out of your space suit, is right this way.”

  The corporal appeared to be having difficulty carrying Grace’s belongings. He struggled to get the duffel bag up onto his shoulder. Grace knew the few medical instruments inside the duffel bag were heavy, but they were antique collectors’ items and they had deep, sentimental value, as they had been gifts from her parents. She had been loath to leave them anywhere behind. Thus her duffel was substantially heavier than it looked, but it was not a weight that usually troubled Grace. She had come from a planet with a gravitational pull close to that of Earth. Corporal McMullen looked as though he had spent the majority of his life in zero gravity space.

  “Corporal, I can carry my own gear,” Grace said, reaching to reclaim her belongings.

  “Oh, it is no problem at all, Lieutenant,” the young man protested, his face red with either exertion or embarrassment. She was not quite sure which. “In truth, Dr. Lord, I would actually feel it a dereliction of duty, if you had to carry your own things. This robot, here, will carry it for you.”

  Corporal McMullen handed the heavy bag off to a silver robot with a chest panel upon which a name flashed in bold letters. Grace was sure the robot was waiting to greet someone.

  “Does that robot not have to stay here, to meet someone arriving to the station? It appears to be waiting for someone with the name . . . Crowfeather,” Grace said.

  “It will find another robot to transfer your bag to, Lieutenant,” Corporal McMullen said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “I’m sorry to be difficult, Corporal, but I insist on keeping my personal belongings with me. Having lost my things numerous times in the past, I now don’t let that bag out of my sight, until I am settled in my own quarters. I speak from bitter experience and many frustrating hours of searching for my property on various planets and space stations. I hope you will humor me, in this regard.” Grace narrowed her eyes and used a tone that said this was not a request.

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” Corporal McMullen said with a bow, blushing even redder than before, as he took the bag back from the greeter robot. “I will be glad to carry it for you.”

  “That is quite all right, Corporal,” Grace sighed, trying not to rant at this man’s gallantry. “I am perfectly capable of carrying my own belongings.”

  ‘Much more capable than you,’ her little voice thought, maliciously. Grace took a deep breath and told the little voice to be more charitable.

  “I insist, Lieutenant,” Corporal McMullen said, refusing to relinquish the duffel bag.

  ‘Chivalry may not be dead’, the little voice in Grace’s head said, ‘but it could be down right annoying at times.’ Grace, grinding her teeth in frustration, had to agree.

  “Why, all right, Corporal, but for the moment, I would like my belongings back, so I have something to change into, when I get out of this suit.”

  At that, the young man’s face blazed magenta. Grace was wondering if he was going to explode from embarrassment. With his orange hair, green eyes, ruddy cheeks, and slight frame, Grace was reminded of the image of a clown she had once seen in a children’s holo (minus the forked tongue). Grace could not help but feel a little sorry for Corporal McMullen, as he quickly handed back her duffel bag, mumbling apologies. She limped off to the women’s change room. She hoped the young corporal’s complexion would return to normal by the time she returned.

  Once her spacesuit was handed in to the robots at the spacesuit storage counter, where it would be repaired, cleaned, and tested to ensure there was no atmospheric leaks, Grace returned to the waiting corporal. She was now attired in her dark blue military uniform and matching boots. She tried to avoid limping, but was unsuccessful. The boots were uncomfortable. Deciding that her body was not up to any kind of tour of the station, Grace asked the corporal to take her directly to where Dr. Al-Fadi was operating. Corporal McMullen nodded in assent.

  “Dr. Al-Fadi is operating in Suite M7 OR 1. I will take you there now, Lieutenant,” the corporal said. He made a move to take her duffel bag and Grace glared at him. He quickly pulled his hand back.

  Grace followed the corporal along wide, well-lit, pale grey corridors, riding the silent glideways. Due to the spin of the enormous space station, the ‘downward’ pull that gave the sense of gravity was towards the outside walls of the rings. The spokes connecting the inner rings of the station to the outer rings ran in a ‘vertical’ direction. There were clusters of transparent-walled, anti-gravity shafts, adorned with silvery handlebars and brilliant, electric-blue lighting, marking each intersection between spoke and ring of the station. They rode ‘up’ one anti-grav shaft and got off at the middlemost ring or Ring Three. Corporal McMullen led Grace to a monorail train station platform that was decorated in stunning colors, which was quite a visual contrast to the previous grey corridors.

  Grace was astonished by the huge number of personnel she passed on her way to the monorail, everyone in coveralls or uniforms
of brilliant hues, rushing in an orderly manner on urgent errands, or so it appeared. She had never been on a ship or station that seemed so highly populated. Of course, on a medical space station or in a hospital, there was always an air of controlled panic. It seemed this enormous medical station was no different in that respect.

  There were also many androids and robots, in every color under the rainbow, walking or gliding by. In the monorail station, they could be seen gathered at the distant ends of the platform, presumably needing to board the train as well, but conveniently kept out of the way of the humans.

  Grace and Corporal McMullen stood, waiting for the monorail train along with scores of station personnel, most human-looking enough. The corporal explained that the various colored uniforms denoted the many different departments of the station, a color code which could be looked up on her wrist-comp. When the monorail arrived, streaking into the station silently, multiple doors slid open along the silver train. The corporal stepped to the side of an open doorway, allowing Grace to enter before him. Grace was swept into the car on a wave of urgency, as personnel hurried past, searching for seats. Grace grabbed a handle bar over her head to stay by the doors and her guide.

  Androids and robots boarded last and spaced themselves out rather evenly in the center of the aisle, where they could act as handholds for the personnel riding the train. The corporal grabbed the arm of one android as he maneuvered around to Grace’s side and pointed up to the map above the opposing doorway.

  The station map resembled a huge bull’s eye target with five concentric circles linked by many spokes radiating outwards from the innermost circle. The many stations were marked all around the circumference. There were five monorails that traversed around the medical space station, each track delineated by a different color and covering a larger perimeter as one moved from the innermost ring, outwards. Grace and Corporal McMullen were riding the middle monorail. She was beginning to comprehend just how large this medical space station was. It was vast and, in many ways, rather intimidating.