by Peter Grant
He tried to answer, but his mouth was very dry. She seemed to understand. She turned away for a moment, then turned back, holding a glass of water, and put a straw to his lips. He sucked, swilling the water around his mouth, luxuriating as it soaked parched tissues and seemed to revitalize his whole being. He swallowed, feeling the moisture spread down his throat, then sucked again, and again.
“Don’t drink too much at once,” she warned, pulling the straw away from his lips.
He licked his lips with his newly–irrigated tongue. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“I’m Petty Officer Third Class Osborne, a Lancastrian Fleet nursing aide. You’re in the Fleet Hospital in our Sector Base outside Ashkelon, Midrash’s capital city. After you were shot they knocked you out, then brought you straight down here — they could see your arm would need surgical attention. The doctor says you were very fortunate to be wearing a hard–shell work spacesuit. The bead expended a lot of energy getting through it before it hit you, so it caused much less damage than it would otherwise have done.
“Anyway, everything went fine. They cleaned out your wound, put the pieces of bone back together and set it, wrapped it in a neobone lattice and painted it with nannies, then closed you up. They kept you asleep overnight to give the nannies time to get to work. Scans this morning show the flesh and bone are knitting together nicely, and the neobone lattice is more than half–filled already. You’ll be able to leave hospital by this afternoon.”
As she spoke, she checked his vital signs from the readout next to the bed, then straightened his covers and opened the curtains to let in more light. He looked at her more closely. She seemed younger than him. Her blond hair, longer than a Spacer’s close–cropped fuzz, framed a cheerful, open face.
“Thank heavens for nanotech medicine, I guess! When does the neobone lattice have to be removed?”
“It doesn’t. Within six months it’ll have been absorbed by the body. The nannies will be excreted in the normal way. Basically, it gives your arm most of the strength of an intact humerus while the bone inside repairs itself, then it goes away when you no longer need it.”
“Oh. OK, then. How long will I be in this cast?”
“Usually not more than four or five days for this kind of injury. By then the nannies will have bonded the flesh of your arm together over the break, so a simple bandage over the wound will suffice. They’ll fit you with a brace and sling, which you’ll use for up to a month, depending on how you feel.”
“That’s good news. Do you know what happened after I was shot?”
“One of your officers will be along shortly to tell you all about it. They knew you’d be waking up about now. Would you like breakfast?”
He suddenly realized that he was ravenous. “I could kill for some food, thanks.”
“Not too much, and mainly soft foods,” she cautioned. “Your stomach won’t thank you for a heavy meal right now! How about scrambled eggs on toast? Tea, coffee or fruit juice?”
“That’ll be great — and both tea and fruit juice if possible, please.”
The food arrived shortly, and she sat at his bedside and fed him. He didn’t like that, and said as much, but she silenced his protests. “You’ve got a cast around one arm, and you’re still a little unsteady from the anesthetic. Last but not least, I don’t want to have to change the sheets on your bed after you’ve eaten! Don’t be too proud to be helped. That’s why the Fleet pays us these enormous salaries, anyway.”
He snorted. “Yeah, right, just like they do us Spacers!”
He enjoyed the meal, although he wished there had been more of it. She promised that if his stomach showed no signs of rebellion over the next few hours, he could have something more solid for lunch before being discharged. The thought cheered him considerably.
Another nurse hurried in. “Visitor coming. He’s a Marine.”
The two of them hastily put the remains of breakfast on the tray, checked to see that everything in the room was presentable, and scurried out. Within moments he heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and Brooks looked in.
“Hey, Steve! Are you receiving visitors?”
“Visitors, yes, but I’m not sure whether Marines qualify.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” He made as if to turn and walk away.
“Get in here, you idiot! I want to hear what’s been happening since I got shot.”
Laughing, Brooks sat down on a chair at the right side of the bed. Steve used the bed’s controls to raise its upper section so he could look at him more easily.
Brooks began, “You did a hell of a job up there! Turns out those buggers were part of a major smuggling operation. By spotting them getting ready to jump you, you saved your team from being overwhelmed. My Marines in your team are admiringly — and rather profanely — describing you as a ‘one–man wrecking crew’! You killed two smugglers with your pistol, seriously injured a third with that pry–bar, and disabled two more hand–to–hand.”
Steve frowned. “You said I killed two smugglers? Did I hit the man in the shuttle, then? His shot struck me as I fired, and then he got hit by my team’s fire, so I didn’t see the result of mine.”
“Yes, you did. Several of your team saw your shot strike his chest, and we confirmed that from the hold’s security vid. He was hit more than twenty times by the others — a case of overkill if ever I heard of one! Still, your bead hit him first, so even if you share him with others, he’s on your scorecard.”
“Do we know who he was, and why he fired? It was all over in the hold by then. He couldn’t have made any difference to the outcome, so why did he do it?”
“According to the System Patrol, his name was Albert Murrin — hey! Take it easy!”
Steve surged upright in bed as he heard the name, but froze with as his injured arm tugged at him. He hissed in agony as his injured nerves let him know in no uncertain terms how stupid he’d been. He eased himself gently back onto the pillows as Brooks half–supported him.
“Th — thanks, Brooks. Dumb of me, I know, but… I know that name. Did he serve a prison term at Vesta some years ago?”
“Yes. They checked his record, and found he’d done time there for a drug trafficking offense. He got back here a couple of years ago.”
“That figures.” Steve explained how he’d encountered Murrin aboard Cabot, his first ship as a merchant spacer, and what had happened to him. “I know he blamed me for being caught. I guess he must have recognized me and wanted to get even.”
“Not according to the other prisoners, and to recordings of their communications. Seems the man you shot in the hold was Murrin’s younger brother. Murrin was in the crew compartment of the cargo shuttle, and saw him go down over its vid circuit — it had a camera looking into the hold. He couldn’t make out faces at that distance, but he knew it was his brother because there were a couple of distinctive patches on his spacesuit. He seems to have gone off his head at the sight. He grabbed a bead carbine, rushed down to the load compartment, and tried to kill you. I’ve heard the recording of his cursing and swearing and ranting over the suit channel they were using. There’s nothing to indicate he ever knew who you were.”
Steve grimaced. “I knew Murrin was from Midrash, but I didn’t know he had a brother. Now their parents have two sons to mourn.” He sighed, remained silent for a moment, then looked up. “Was there any contraband in those crates?”
Brooks laughed aloud. “You bet! When the dust had settled, the System Patrol found that some weighed almost twice as much as listed on the bill of lading. They tore down the components of the inertial compensator, and found some were full of solid rhodium briquettes — more than a ton of them! We’ve learned from the prisoners that it was being smuggled through Midrash as part of a laundering operation. It would have gone on to another destination aboard another ship — presumably Trudish, which was to receive the compensator.”
“So the Patrol’s seized the rhodium?”
“Of course, and the co
mpensator, and the cargo shuttle, and Vargash herself. She’s carrying a lot of other cargo, most of which is probably legitimate, but everything aboard is being checked. If they find any more smuggled goods, they’ll be seized as well.”
Steve couldn’t help a smile of satisfaction. “I bet the System Patrol Service is pleased. This gives them all the grounds they need to go after the Fargin conglomerate.”
“That’s what Lieutenant–Commander Maram told us. He was almost dancing with excitement! Fargin’s already appealed Vargash’s seizure for smuggling, but some of her officers and crew are singing like birds in the hope of lighter sentences, so I don’t think her owners have much chance. By the way, all of us in Achilles’ boarding and search parties are very pleased with you! We’ll share in the prize money, along with Midrash’s System Patrol Service personnel. Your team gets double prize points, of course, because you made the discovery and capture, and the rest of us get standard prize points because we came to your assistance. I know I owe mine to your getting me aboard Achilles just in time for this operation. It’ll be my first prize money award. I owe you the biggest, best supper I can afford!”
Steve grinned. “You’ll be able to afford a very nice one when they pay out, so I’ll take you up on that! Let’s see. A three million ton freighter, even an old one, should be worth a pretty decent price — at least thirty million; then there’s the price of rhodium — it’s much more expensive than gold — plus the value of the cargo shuttle and the inertial compensator… even if the auction isn’t heavily bid, we could be talking about fifty to sixty million credits all told.”
Brooks goggled. “Man, that’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick! Let’s say it’s forty million, to be on the safe side. The officers’ share would be fifteen per cent of that, which is six million; and there are only two officers aboard each of those six patrol craft, plus you and I and Miriam. All of us are O–1 and O–2 grade. We’re talking six–figure payouts! Our Spacers and Marines will also do very well. There can’t be more than eighty or ninety Midrash personnel, plus sixty from the Fleet, to split the enlisted prize share.”
Steve grinned. “It’ll go some way towards making up for this arm.”
“There’ll be more than just prize money to compensate for that. You’ll be getting a second award of the Combat Injury Medal, of course, and that automatically means another star for your Space Combat Badge. After all, you can’t suffer a combat injury unless you were in combat! I guess the others in your team will put up another star too.”
~ ~ ~
After lunch — steak and vegetables, to Steve’s pleasure and the gratification of his rumbling stomach — he was allowed out of bed. The hospital provided sweatpants, and a zippered sweatshirt three sizes larger than his normal clothing. PO3 Osborne showed him how to ease the sweatshirt over his good right arm, leaving his slung left arm loose inside it. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and grimaced.
“It looks like I’m pregnant on one side only, and way too high.”
Osborne giggled. “If you are, it won’t be your arm in a sling — it’ll be your ass!”
He tried very hard to look aloof. “Don’t worry, my dear. I always take precautions.”
She goggled at him for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.
A familiar voice from the door said dryly, “Clearly, if getting shot puts you in such high spirits, we should arrange for it to happen more often.”
Steve swung around to find Lieutenant–Commander Kilian standing there, along with a uniformed Commander and a man in civilian clothes, neither of whom he recognized. He stiffened to attention as best he could in his casual clothing and hospital slippers.
“Good afternoon, Sir.”
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Something’s come up. We need to talk.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
As they came inside, Osborne said, “I just finished helping Lieutenant Maxwell get dressed, Sir. I’ll leave you to talk alone.” She whisked out and closed the door behind her.
Steve glanced around the room. “I’m afraid there are only two chairs, Sir, but if one of you won’t mind sitting on the edge of the bed with me, I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“Very well. This is Commander Wu, Sector Chief of the Bureau of Intelligence, and Inspector Gilon of the Ashkelon Police Department. I think the Inspector should begin.”
The civilian smiled. “Thank you, Commander.” He settled himself in his chair. “Lieutenant, thank you for an excellent piece of work yesterday. Ashkelon PD is working with our System Patrol Service to follow up leads implicating the Fargin conglomerate in this affair. I’m sure we’ll be busy with the case for months to come. However, it seems you’ve touched a raw nerve in our criminal community. No sooner did the news break about Vargash than informers began to report that a contract had been issued on your life.”
Steve blinked. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “A contract? You mean, someone wants me killed?”
“Yes. The word on the street is that it’s because you led the Marines and Spacers that stopped those smugglers, and killed those two men. Someone wants revenge. There may be more to it than that, of course, but that’s what we’ve heard so far.”
A wave of anger washed over him. “Who’s behind it?”
“We don’t know yet. We’re trying to learn more, but we thought it best to notify BuIntel at once.”
“That’s where I came in,” Commander Wu added. He was a short, stocky man with bright, intelligent eyes behind old–fashioned eyeglasses. Steve couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t use contact lenses, or hadn’t undergone nanosurgery to correct his vision problems. Very few people wore eyeglasses these days, except for cosmetic reasons.
“Inspector Gilon contacted me this morning,” he continued. “I passed on the news to your Commanding Officer, and asked her whether we could make use of you for a couple of days during your convalescence to nail down this thing. She agreed, and sent Lieutenant–Commander Kilian down to represent her during this discussion.”
“I don’t understand, Sir.”
“We’d like to use you as bait, Lieutenant. We can’t have criminals going around issuing contracts on the lives of Fleet officers, so BuIntel would like to nip this in the bud as quickly as possible. Our idea is to let it slip out that you’ll be at a well–known restaurant two evenings from now, so would–be assassins will know when and where they can find you. Of course, we’ll blanket the area with security to detain any would–be assassins before they can try to kill you. We want to question them — or, rather, have Ashkelon PD question them — in order to identify the person or persons behind the contract.”
“I get it, Sir. I hope you don’t mind my saying that, as the person who’ll be in the line of fire, I hope your security will be on top form!”
Commander Wu grinned. “Perhaps Inspector Gilon can reassure you about that.”
Gilon nodded. “We’ll have BuIntel and BuSec operatives working with us. We’ll put agents in the restaurant kitchen, to make sure no one poisons your food; we’ll have them in the restaurant itself, to cover you from all sides; and we’ll have external security over the parking lot and surrounding roads. We value Midrash’s position as a Fleet Sector Base, so we’ll put our best people on this case. I think we’ll be able to identify and neutralize any threat entering the zone.”
“I see. And how will you publicize my presence at the restaurant?”
“After the Vargash incident the media are clamoring for interviews with you,” Wu informed him. “We’ll hold a news conference tomorrow morning, during which we’ll arrange for a question to be asked that’ll allow us to mention your restaurant booking in response. A tailor will be here in about half an hour to take your measurements. He’s promised to work through the night to produce a new Number Two uniform that will fit over that cast and sling, a civilian suit for your dinner engagement, and a selection of other clothing. BuIntel will cover the costs, of cour
se.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Steve hesitated. “There’s one thing, Sir. You and Inspector Gilon have promised that security will be tight, but I’ve learned the hard way that the tightest security can still develop leaks. With your permission, Sir, I’d like to carry a pistol until this matter is sorted out. I think I’ve demonstrated that I can use one effectively. I have my private pistol secured in Achilles’ armory, if Lieutenant–Commander Kilian will arrange to have it sent down to the planet for me. Inspector, how do I go about getting a Midrash carry permit?”
“I’ll have one issued to you,” Gilon replied. “As a Commonwealth citizen you have the right to keep and bear arms, of course, and we accept the Fleet’s handgun training as the equivalent of our carry qualification requirements. I’ll record your picture and details before we leave, and have our Licensing Branch hand–deliver the permit to you this evening. As for a pistol, don’t worry about bringing yours down — you’re a Fleet officer, acting in the course of your official duties, so APD will loan you a weapon. What model is yours?”
“It’s a Chronos 89C, the compact version of their full–size pistol.” Steve forbore to mention that it had been confiscated from a team of thugs that had tried to kidnap him several years before, along with a second pistol of the same type, plus two full–size versions. The four had been the beginning of his small, but growing collection of weapons.
The Inspector’s eyebrows rose appreciatively. “You have good taste in pistols — expensive, too! A local version is made under license from Chronos. We have some in our armory. I’ll get you a laser–sighted model, since you’ll have to use it one–handed. What sort of holster will you need?”
“Well, Sir, I’m wearing this sling. Is there a holster that can fit inside it, out of sight?”
“Good idea. I’m sure our Armorer can find something suitable. I’ll ask him.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
