by Peter Grant
The cutter was already high enough that he opted to cross the mountain and accelerate down its far side, rather than go around it. It took only a quarter of an hour’s high–speed flight before the battalion base came into view. Shankill had called ahead for medical assistance, and Steve saw ambulances assembling at the side of the landing field as he roared towards it. He slowed the cutter, pulled into a hover, dropped his wheels and touched down as gently as he could, lowering the rear ramp as soon as the vehicle had settled.
Stretcher–bearers poured up the ramp, going to each stretcher, freeing the clamps holding it to the support rails, unstrapping the occupants, then carrying them carefully down the ramp to the waiting ambulances. The medic from the patrol at the village supervised the unloading, then came over to Steve.
“All the injured are gonna make it, PO, thanks to your help; but your arm’s covered in blood — it’s even dripping down your leg. I want you in the field hospital right now to get that wound dressed.”
Shankill nodded. “Yeah. You’ve done damn well today, Maxwell. Let them patch you up while I have the techs check out your cutter to make sure there’s no damage. I can drive it over there — your pilot console’s almost identical to those we use in our shuttles.”
“OK, thanks, Sergeant.” Steve turned to the medic. “Which way?”
“We’ll go in one of the ambulances.”
An assistant in the triage area cut off the sleeve of Steve’s flight suit, took a quick look at his arm, applied a temporary dressing, then had him wait to one side while the more seriously wounded stretcher patients received attention. A doctor finally checked his wound, and pronounced it not too serious.
“You’ll be fine,” she assured him. “It’s really just a scratch, even though it’s deep. No nerves or major blood vessels were cut.”
A nurse practitioner applied a numbing spray before cleaning his wound. She painted on a nanotech solution that both disinfected it and glued its edges together, then put a pad and dressing over it. Steve winced as she applied a pressure injector above the injury site.
“Ow! What was that?”
“That was a combined shot: a general–purpose nanobiotic, just to make sure none of the local bugs put you on their menu, and a painkiller. That arm’s going to be pretty sore when the numbing spray wears off. I’m going to put it in a sling for the rest of today, so you won’t try to do too much with it and pull the wound open again. You can do without the sling tomorrow, if you feel up to it. Now, to bed with you. Don’t argue with me!” She held up her hand as he opened his mouth. “After that painkiller you won’t be fit to fly until tomorrow morning. If your ship really needs your cutter, they can send someone else down to get it, or have a Marine pilot ferry it up to orbit. We’ll let them know you’re safe here with us.”
Steve was frustrated, but knew he was stuck. If he’d been given medication that would affect his reflexes and reaction time, he had no business flying.
An orderly led him to a ward tent. Its inflated, insulated sides and roof kept it cool in the heat of the day, aided by an air conditioning unit humming outside. Ten cots lined each wall, about half of them already occupied by Marines. A couple of the casualties he’d just ferried to the hospital were brought in as he arrived. The ward nurses busied themselves getting the stretcher–bound patients into bed.
“Use this bed, PO,” the orderly suggested. “It’s almost time for lunch. The food’s surprisingly good here. We didn’t bring civilian caterers with us, so we hired some of the local people to work in our kitchens. They cook our rations in Central European style. Their goulash is world–class!” He licked his lips as he handed Steve a towel and a toiletry kit. “Take a bath in the fresher tent next door, but don’t shower — you need to keep that arm dry for a couple of days. Leave your clothes on the bed so I can read their sizes. I’ll get you some pajamas, a set of utility coveralls, and fresh socks and underwear, then dispose of that flight suit. I reckon it’s had its day, with the sleeve cut off and blood all over it.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Would you please pull the badges off it, and save them for me? They’re secured by hook–and–loop fasteners, so they’ll come off easy enough.”
“Sure thing.”
Steve bathed, put on his pajamas, and found that the goulash fully lived up to the orderly’s praise; but by then the combined effects of the morning’s adrenaline rush and the painkiller had taken effect. He lay down on the bed for ‘just a short rest’, and went out like a light.
~ ~ ~
Steve woke early in the evening, feeling much better despite his throbbing arm. A large supper satisfied his hunger, and proved once again that the orderly hadn’t lied about the quality of the food served at the field hospital. He dressed in a set of clean Marine utility coveralls, settled his arm in its sling, and put a borrowed Marine fatigue cap on his head. Refilling his cup with fresh coffee from the ward orderly’s station — which he was delighted to discover had been brewed at a less–than–caustic concentration, a pleasant change from what he was used to enduring aboard Grasswren — he walked outside to enjoy the fresh air, sniffing appreciatively. It smelled much better than the ‘canned’ atmosphere aboard spaceships.
He was standing there, sipping his coffee, minding his own business, when he saw a group of boisterous, laughing Marines coming down the walk between the ward tents. In the light from diodes hanging along the path, he was almost sure he saw a Spacer’s black Number Two uniform among their camouflage battledress. As they drew nearer, to his astonishment he recognized Senior Lieutenant Parasurani, walking beside a officer wearing two ringed planets on his battledress collar. The insignia were gold, denoting a Marine Lieutenant–Colonel, rather than the silver worn by a Commander in the Spacer Corps.
His skipper spotted him and pointed in his direction, obviously identifying him. Steve put down his cup on the grass as they came up. He drew himself to attention and saluted the Marine officer.
“Good evening, Sir.”
The man returned his salute, grinning broadly. “Good evening, PO.” He grasped Steve’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m Lieutenant–Colonel Shota, Commanding Officer of the First Battalion, Second Regiment, Marine Reaction Force, Vesta Sector. I wanted to thank you personally for saving our patrol this morning.”
“Sir, I didn’t exactly save anyone,” he protested. “All I did was deliver some ammo, pick up some wounded and drop a rock on a mountain.”
The group broke into laughter. Even his boss was chuckling. “That was plenty!” Shota replied, grinning. “The rock was an excellent idea, and demonstrated fast thinking under fire. The landslide it caused worked very well indeed. You buried the mortar, its two–man firing team, and five other terrorists deployed to protect them. We’ve recovered their bodies. That was very creative and very well done, PO! If you hadn’t nailed them, my people would have had to fight their way up the hillside to get at them. I’m sure they’d have succeeded, but they’d probably have taken more casualties in the process. As it is, that patrol has a complaint about you. You delivered all that heavy ammo to them, then removed the need for it. Now they’ve got to pack it all out again, this time without the help of your cutter!”
More laughter erupted from the Marines gathered around them. Even Steve had to grin.
“I had a word with Grasswren’s skipper, Senior Lieutenant Parasurani here,” Shota continued, “and invited him to join me for a little presentation. Lieutenant?”
“Thank you, Sir.” Parasurani stepped forward. “PO Maxwell, you were wounded in action this morning. That qualifies you for the Combat Injury Medal.” He took a medal box from his pocket. “The CIM’s the only award nobody really wants to earn, of course; but there you are, and here it is. I can’t pin it to your uniform because your sling gets in the way, so you’ll have to accept it in its box. We’ll arrange a formal citation certificate in due course.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Steve took the box from him, slipped it into his slin
g, then shook his skipper’s hand as the others applauded. “I — I’m afraid I don’t know what to say! I’d completely forgotten about the CIM.”
“Oh, we haven’t finished yet. Back to you, Colonel, Sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Sergeant–Major?”
“Here, Sir.” A burly figure thrust his way forward, handing the officer another medal box. Shota opened it to reveal a rectangular gold badge, crossed carbines die–stamped on its polished surface, with a row of four tiny sockets at the bottom. The first lower socket was filled with a gold star, signifying a single incident of combat on a planet’s surface or inside its atmosphere. Steve noted that Lieutenant–Colonel Shota wore the same badge on the right chest of his uniform, but without the lower row of sockets and a single, larger gold star above the emblem, signifying he’d been in planetside combat during five or more assignments or campaigns. Next to it he wore the Space Combat Badge, a platinum rectangle die–stamped with crossed lightning bolts, bearing two platinum stars below them. Senior Lieutenant Parasurani wore the same badge, also with two stars.
“Your involvement in the engagement this morning also qualifies you for the automatic award of a combat star, which Lieutenant Parasurani tells me is your first. It therefore gives me great pleasure to present you with the Planetary Combat Badge, bearing one star.”
Steve took the boxed badge from the Marine, stowed it in his sling, and shook his hand as those standing around them broke into renewed applause. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. They might be routine awards under the circumstances, but to receive a medal and a combat badge simultaneously made this a day like he’d never experienced before, even without Lieutenant–Colonel Shota’s hint that there might be something more to come.
“Th — thank you, Sir,” he managed to get out, wincing as a few Marines delivered over–enthusiastic slaps on his back, jarring his injured arm.
The Sergeant–Major noticed. “All right, knock it off, you knuckleheads!” he barked, although he couldn’t help grinning. “The man’s wounded! Stop beating up on him.”
After a few more pleasantries, the Marines left for their accommodation. Senior Lieutenant Parasurani remained behind for a moment.
“I came down with a cutter from Baobab, which brought spare parts to repair yours,” he explained. “It seems those mortar shells severed an antenna, put a small hole in the pressure hull and damaged two tires. Marine techs will put everything right overnight. It’ll be ready to take back to the ship tomorrow morning. I’ll ride up to orbit with you.”
“Aye aye, Sir.” Steve shook his head. “I still can’t quite believe all this.”
“I’m sure it’s come as a surprise, but you did very well today, and used your head. Rocks and landslides as weapons of war seem to satisfy our Marines’ sense of the fitness of things.”
“Well, Sir, they believe in clobbering the enemy with something as big and as heavy as possible, don’t they?”
“Of course they do! That’s why they’re Marines!”
~ ~ ~
Gavril muttered in frustration as the fuel cartridge stuck yet again in the mounting rails. He withdrew it, sat back, and took a deep breath.
“Not working?” Steve asked sympathetically.
“Not working,” the Radetskian agreed. “The tolerances on a cutter’s fusion micro–reactor are so tight! Once you get the fuel cartridge lined up right, it goes in without any trouble. Unfortunately, getting the alignment right is… infuriating!”
Steve chuckled. “Take your time. Be patient. Remember, you need to master this before your planet’s own cutters and cargo shuttles get here.”
Gavril beamed. “I can hardly believe they’ll be here tomorrow! I’m amazed at the generosity of your Fleet in giving us six of each without charge.”
Steve grinned. “The generosity works both ways. You see, they’re officially being provided to you, not by the Fleet, but by the United Planets mission to Radetski. The UP puts out a request to its member planets whenever it needs something for a peacekeeping mission. Sometimes it’s donated without charge. Other times — almost always, in the Fleet’s case — the Commissioner in charge of the mission will come to an agreement with the donor on the fair market value of the equipment or materials concerned. He’ll award that value to the donor in the form of a credit applicable to United Planets annual membership dues.
“Being a military service, we aren’t a member of the UP, so we advertise the credit to Commonwealth member worlds at a discount. One of our planets will agree to supply goods and services to the Fleet, to the value of ninety per cent of the UP credit. It’ll buy them from its own manufacturers and suppliers, of course — they make them to our standards, and we make sure there’s good quality control in place. We then exchange the UP credit for the goods and services.
“Everybody wins. The planet makes ten per cent profit on the deal, which pleases its Treasury and helps us gain its government’s support in the Commonwealth Senate for the Fleet’s annual budget. Its manufacturers get more work and hire more people, which generates more profits and salaries, boosting the planet’s economy and tax base. The UP gets what it needs — and, in this case, so does Radetski. The Fleet gets new goods and services it needs in exchange for older assets it doesn’t need any more. The market value of those assets is often higher than their depreciated value on our books, so we make a profit on paper. Finally, we earn goodwill from all the other parties involved. What’s not to like?”
Gavril chuckled. “It sounds very complicated, but in the end, you’re right; everyone’s happy. I am, too. There’ll be lots of opportunities for pilots as we expand.” He patted the brand–new pilot’s wings on his left chest. “Another year or so of experience and I’ll be a pilot–in–command, like you. After that, who knows? I’ll stay here until our new government’s in full control, but then I might look for employment on a merchant freighter. You said you were a pilot in the merchant service, didn’t you?”
“Yes, although not for very long before I enlisted in the Fleet.” Steve’s face grew somber as he remembered the Bosun. The void in his heart left by Vince’s death had grown easier to bear over the years, but had never been filled. To divert his thoughts, he changed the subject.
“You’re speaking much better Galactic Standard English these days. Your accent is a lot less heavy than it was.”
The Radetskian blushed slightly. “I get a lot of practice in your language up here. That’s also useful if I decide to join the merchant service, of course. Galactic Standard English is spoken almost everywhere, isn’t it?”
“It’s one of three standard languages — the other two are Spanish and Mandarin. It’s a toss–up whether English or Mandarin is the most widely used.”
The Radetskian nodded. “Not many people speak my home language nowadays — at least, not on other planets. Macedonia was a very minor member of the Central European Hegemony, on its southern flank. The Hegemony refused to allow Macedonians to join the Scramble for Space, although several hundred were exiled to an island on Radetski.”
“Well, if there’s anything to the ‘life after death’ theory, perhaps the shades of your Earth–bound ancestors will be proud to see you in space at last.”
“I’d like to think so. You’re not a believer?”
Steve shook his head. “The Benedictines who ran the orphanage where I was raised did their best to make me one, but… no. I’ve seen one real good friend die. I reckon, if there was any so–called Divine justice in the universe, he’d still be here. I’d like there to be life after death, if only so I could hope to see him again, but I don’t know. I’ve seen nothing to convince me that any religion is true, and there’s no solid evidence — only other people’s unproven and unprovable theories and beliefs. I’m not saying there isn’t anything there, you understand; only that I’m not prepared to commit myself to anything on such flimsy grounds.”
Gavril nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps one day you’ll find evidence that per
suades you. I saw enough good, even in the midst of the evil that surrounded us on Radetski, to make me believe there must be something or Someone out there to inspire it.”
“If you ever find out for sure, let me know.”
“You won’t be here much longer, so I’ll have to work fast.”
Steve laughed. “You have a point. I’ll be leaving in three weeks.”
“You’ll take more with you than when you arrived. Your medal was well earned. Has your wound healed?”
“Pretty much. That nanobiotic glue they use to stick flesh together is great! It disinfects, cures, binds and heals all at once. Ten days after the injury I can only just see the scar, and then only if I look real hard.” Steve glanced at the cutter’s bulkhead time display. “Hey, I’m enjoying this conversation, but we’ve got a briefing in half an hour. Try that cartridge again.”
“Very well.” Gavril bent, looked along the sides of the cartridge to make sure it was square to the rails in its socket, and pushed tentatively. The fuel cartridge slid into the socket, stuck for a moment, then slowly moved inward as the automatic loading mechanism engaged.
“Yes! It worked this time.”
“Nice going. OK, let’s button this up, secure the floor plate, then get showered and changed. We can’t show up for the briefing looking like grease monkeys!”
~ ~ ~
The briefing took place in Grasswren’s diminutive mess hall. Warrant Officer Dhruv, the ship’s executive officer, officiated. He would lead the boarding and search party tomorrow. Also present were two Petty Officers who would lead sections of the team, plus Steve as the pilot of the cutter that would transport everyone. Gavril accompanied him to learn more about the planning involved in such arrangements.
Dhruv called the meeting to order. “All right, people. We’ll rendezvous with Leona, a million–ton Medusa–registered freighter, as soon as she enters Radetski orbit tomorrow morning. She’s on her way in from the system boundary as we speak, carrying six cutters and six cargo shuttles for Radetski’s government of planetary unity, plus all the arms and other equipment needed to outfit two battalions.”
