The Return of the Grey

by Robert Lee Henry

  An aide entered the room. Celene quickly blinked the tears away.

  ‘Specialist,’ greeted the aide.

  ‘Please remove these restraints,’ she meant to say, but the tears returned and she choked out, ‘I can’t bear these,’ instead.

  ‘Ahh, I should have come in sooner,’ said the aide. ‘The straps are only to be on when you sleep. You thrash around so that the doctor fears for all her good work.’

  ‘The good work’ was around her chest. A clear breastplate with a multitude of fine wires going into her body to the fragments of her ribs, with a few thin pads over the undisturbed areas, very few, to hold it away from her skin. Her small breasts were squashed against the clear plastic. Modesty, which had been so great a part of her life, had been stripped from her.

  The aide pulled down the sheet covering her then undid the straps and carefully laid her arms at her side. Why couldn’t he have released my arms first? These small things came to her automatically now. She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side when he went to check the bandage on her stomach.

  It was small now and only covered the wound. They had shaved her and she felt doubly bare. He lifted the bandage from the side, from her hip.

  ‘This is coming along very well. Amazing for such a blow. They will have you on your feet soon. How about that?’

  She didn’t reply.

  She felt the bandage lower back onto her belly and then the sheet rise up over her. The aide left with out a word.

  What is going on? This is a nothing thing, she told herself. Are you so reduced that you can not dismiss it from your mind? She tried to fire her anger. To regain some control. I am Celestene D’Auvinery Celerion. Not some wreck of a girl.

  It didn’t work. She was a wreck, a ruin. Her eyes found the message cylinder on the table.

  A message from the stars, from the Rim, delivered at the cost of yet another life. La Mar had read it to her, a warning for her from Tollen. Meant to save her, and it did, though not in the way intended. A cruel twist. Not new to her. People close to her did not fare well. She cared for that grizzled old marine. Would that make it worse for him on the Rim? And Spence. Oh Spence, I tried not to think of you, to fear for you. To mark you for the fates that despise me so much.

  ‘Specialist. I need to change that lower bandage.’ A different aide bustled in around the bed, carrying something folded in her arms that she set on the far counter. She caught Celene’s gaze. ‘It seems that you are ready for clothes. The pants and trousers are your own. They will do fine, although they may be a little snug over the bandage. No belt though. Your mid-section must be free for breathing.’

  That, Celene didn’t need to be told. She had learned early to breathe with her diaphragm, short shallow breaths that did not involve the ribs.

  ‘Your shirts would not fit over the chest brace so Supply has run you up a tunic.’ The aide’s eyes flicked across to the message tube and back. ‘They are very solicitous of you. They come every day, in their quiet way, to inquire after your health and to see if there is anything they can do for you. Our storerooms have never been so full and now we are getting cakes at our stations.’

  ‘I didn’t ask it of them,’ said Celene.

  The aide knew what she meant. ‘This is the Guard. That comes without asking.’

  They were both silent while her bandage was changed. Sheet off again, the aide used Celene’s flat stomach as a table, laying out bandage, tape and scissors. Celene took no affront. Am I only sensitive to men now? Even that much self-analysis was too much, too soon, and she flicked it from her mind.

  ‘Your scans show that you have healed remarkably quickly. Unfortunately that does not give you respite from our attentions. The doctors want you on your feet. Just for short periods. To get your digestive system operating again now that it is back in one piece. There will be some tightness and pain from the site of that wound and from your neck, but the pain from your ribs will make them seem like nothing.’

  Is this her sense of humour or just plain sense? Celene wondered. Both, she decided after her next words.

  ‘Let’s disconnect everything and get some pants on you. Pants on or off makes a great difference to a woman’s mood.’

  They stopped after the trousers. ‘The tunic is long. We’ll leave that off until you are up. It would only catch and tangle under you in the bed.’

  Celene pushed her shoulders up and dragged her hips back so that she was sitting. Pain from her chest took her breath.

  ‘We haven’t given you anything for the pain. Aesca’s order. It seems that you have had a breathing problem before.’ The aide gathered up the old bandage and her scissors. ‘She is a hard woman. Often she shows more care for the body than the soul.’

  Hard. That is an understatement. La Mar had told her of Visco’s demise. No hesitation, no query of ethics or responsibility on Aesca’s part. Instant decision and action. The sub-commander had chosen the wrong woman. Aesca was not a victim, never would be. I wish I could be like her.

  Celene swung her legs around and slid off the bed.

  ‘Wait,’ cried the aide.

  The short drop hurt her but she did not let it show. ‘I can walk in this?’ she asked, fingering the lower rim of the plastic.

  ‘Yes. You will be able to walk. It is fixed to your collarbone. There is just enough play in the wires to let your chest flex. But not so fast. This has to be done slowly, in steps.’ The aide shook her head with a smile. ‘Like La Mar, you are. She rushed it also.’ She stepped close and took Celene’s arm, high near the shoulder. ‘Here, let me help. Only a few steps. To check your balance.’

  They went around the room. There was pain but it was tolerable.

  ‘There. That’s all for now.’

  No, I need more. I have to be able. She drew herself up, to command.

  ‘Ha. Good thing La Mar is not here,’ laughed the aide. ‘She would make you an Amazon, looking like that. And she would have you wear that breastplate just as you are, no tunic. She is a bold one, that one. She could shock a marine, she could. Now back in bed. I will come again in a few hours. It will be quiet then with everyone down at the hangar to welcome the marines and the rest back from the Rim. Before they start bringing the wounded up. We will be able to use the corridor in peace.’

  *

  Celene walked slowly down the long corridor. Somewhere in stores. It was a long section. Already she was tired. She was not sure of the next sector’s designation, whether it was still part of Supply or belonged to Services. She couldn’t think. It didn’t matter. After it would come the smaller hangars, and finally the great hangar with its bays. That is what mattered. She could not go down stairs. There was too much pain and it took too much effort. But this route would suffice. It would take her along the upper levels to one of the high catwalks. She had perched there in the shadows, unseen, when they left for the Rim. Halfway along the wall there were elevators. One would get her down to the floor.

  Breathing was harder now. She had to pull in air and it hurt. But without air she could not go on. Keep walking, she told herself. She remembered Spence’s relief, and his pride, when he had finally mastered his balance. ‘If you can walk, you can get anywhere,’ he had said.

  My anywhere is with you, she told him now. As pain sapped her strength and sense faded, longing grew. Her steps did not slow.

  *

  The hangar was full. Not the main bay. That was clear for the transports, but all the platforms and walkways were crowded. Quartermaine feared for some of the catwalks, not sure of their capacity. He bent forward to look along the line of people with him on the platform. He caught Deacon’s eye, pointed to the walls in query, and received a thumbs-up and a smile.

  The Service commander was happy, as well he should be. All of his people were coming back. Tollen hadn’t lost a one. A few injured but none killed. It was a record for the Rim. And only one from Supply lost. Young Barry, the hero of the fort. That was an action to be proud of. Barry, Tollen a
nd Johnson. Their story had already gone all around Base. There would be more, Quartermaine knew. More tales of bravery and sacrifice. And ones we will never know. More than half the marines had perished. Same for the Far Rangers. So many won’t be coming back. The Armourer, who didn’t want to lead again. Oulte, who would try to fly between twin suns with a smile if you asked him, and the marines who went without thought for themselves, Williams, Faust, Tommo, Delaney, Seca, Sp-. He stopped himself. Think of the ones you have back. Celebrate them now. Time for the others later.

  The first transport rumbled in. It crossed the bay and swung around to stop snug in the front corner, its side against the bollards below the platform. Good handling that … and considerate, thought Quartermaine. Brings their ramp around to the side of us but makes room for the other two to come in and face forward.

  This wasn’t supposed to be a ceremony. He didn’t go in for them. But it had decided itself.

  The ramp came down and spilled out grey and brown suits. No order this time, just out. Some of them touched the floor of the bay as if they were making sure it was there. Their numbers pushed them on. Hellos and cheers turned them to all the walls. A large figure parted the milling mass and made his way to the platform. Steamsetter. Damn, I’d forgotten how big he is. Regret lay heavy on the planes of the serviceman’s long face.

  ‘He looks like he ate that wrench of his,’ whispered La Mar from the side.

  Quartermaine went down the steps until their heads were even. The crowd quieted.

  ‘Commander.’ Steamsetter’s deep voice carried across the bay. ‘The job is done and we are back. Those of us left. We won the Rim. … He won it. Before that last stone came down.’ The big man shook his head. ‘I didn’t watch him close enough. Sorry I lost him. Sorry about all of them.’

  ‘As you say, the job is done,’ said Quartermaine. ‘And that is what matters, what we are here for. Stand to now, with us. Let’s get everyone out and settled. Time to debrief later.’

  The two men walked back up the steps. A second transport came into the bay. Noise lifted as talk went louder to rise above its low roar. The supply and servicemen moved up against the platform. Stretchers came down the ramp of the first transport. Some of the wounded. They will be taken around to the elevators, to go up a few levels and then along to Med, thought Quartermaine. They were, but in a looping circle so that everyone could see them. Those that could, waved. With them walked a stout man with a bandage right round his head. Johnson. He came away as the others curved around and was passed arm to arm up to the platform. He did the steps on his own. A great cheer rang out when he turned at the top.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked when Quartermaine greeted him. ‘Have the marines come in?’

  ‘Well,’ Quartermaine answered lightly. ‘Coming now.’

  The second transport came to rest as the third rumbled in. Marines on a nearby walkway yelled to La Mar. Quartermaine recognised them. They were hard to miss, La Mar’s wild bunch. They were pointing down to the first transport. Bethane was there by the ramp. She must have been the pilot. La Mar stepped across in front to call to her but before she could a wild ululation rang out from the far side of the hangar. Amazons were tumbling out of the short passageways, hopping the rails and running toward them. Rangers followed them a little bit more sedately.

  ‘Hey, La Mar. Aren’t we supposed to be cheering them?’ called Deacon.

  For once La Mar was lost for words. Johnson found her hand. ‘They are happy to see you. They didn’t know how you were, only that you hadn’t died.’ He patted her arm with his other hand. ‘You should be proud of them. They are so brave. They flew in suits under that sky!’

  High praise indeed, thought Quartermaine. From a man who had run out unarmed and unarmoured into enemy fire to rescue two friends.

  The welcome became tumultuous as the Amazons joined the others below. La Mar nearly skipped down the steps.

  The ramp on the second transport descended and marines came out, led by Chalkley sliding down on his heel and a strange pair of crutches that threw sparks when they hit the cement of the floor. More cheers. Everyone packed in front of the platform. No one seemed to want to leave.

  The third transport halted between the first two, but back a ways. There will be more wounded on this one, Quartermaine knew.

  Marines came down the ramp laughing but they quieted once on the floor. Eyes went to the side, then down. They came forward silently. When they reached the others a few words were said and they hushed also.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ said Steamsetter.

  Maybe Tollen has died, thought Quartermaine. They said he was going to make it but you never know. He is old and has been hurt before. No, that’s not it. They come out smiling then change. Something across from the ramp, behind the first transport.

  A marine below turned and signalled to La Mar’s bunch up on the walkway. A hand held cupped, palm down, in front of his chest. Quartermaine didn’t understand. He turned back to the transport.

  All the marines capable of walking were off the transport now. Stretchers rolled down the ramp. Mancine was there at the foot. Aesca appeared at his side.

  *

  Mike looked up the ramp, found each man or woman’s face and nodded to them. His thanks for what they had done. The last stretchers held the worst wounded. Most of these were sedated. He would have to thank them later.

  He knew Aesca was there before he felt her touch. Suddenly he felt complete again. He didn’t turn or look or greet her. He just smiled.

  There was some commotion inside and the last stretcher came down empty. Then Tollen appeared, on his feet, rocking down the ramp with anxious medics at his sides, these two not daring to touch him even in his widest sways. He beamed a smile at Mike, added a wink. For Aesca, Mike hoped. Then the old marine lifted his gaze.

  Mike saw his face tense, then collapse as if some great hurt had hit him. Oh no! His heart.

  Mike stated forward. Aesca’s arm near squeezed him in half as she pulled him around. Then he saw Celene. Up against the side of the transport. Wan. So pale it almost looked as though she wasn’t there. Except for her eyes, shining like crystal.

  She doesn’t know. No one has told her. He had Spence’s medallion in his pocket. All his service medals annealed into one. What they did when you died. He had meant to pass it to her in Med. They said she was there, injured, near death from the caretakers attack. How can she be here?

  Tollen was the last marine off the transport and now she, Celene, understood. Mike walked into that realisation. It was harder than climbing to the cannon at the Bloody Pass, than running for the ridge at the last battle.

  The faded blue of deep bruises ran back below each of her eyes. The high collar on her tunic did not completely hide the scars and stitches on her throat. She leaned against the transport stiffly. More injuries under that tunic.

  The crystal shattered and ran sparkling down her cheeks. This is worse than all her wounds, Mike thought.

  Tollen was beside him, Aesca on his other side. Each raised an arm as they moved forward. Celene held out her hand to stop them.

  Mike didn’t know what to do but he knew he had to do something. He stepped closer. ‘Spence died in the last battle, Celene.’ He did not explain. The how or the why of it didn’t matter. Duty, courage … they were things for another day. He drew the ribbon and medallion from his breast pocket and held it out to her.

  ‘I don’t want his medals. I want him,’ she said simply. Then she turned and walked past them. With each step, her back stiffened and her head rose. Before she reached the elevators she was moving regally. As if she was not injured. As if she was not in pain.

  CHAPTER 98: THE RECEPTION AT THE GREAT GATE

  The walls of Base were imposing, high and menacing, seeming to overhang with the weight of the history they contained. Colda shook his head to rid himself of this feeling. No longer need he feel in awe. He was equal to this place. Soon it would be his.

  From space,
the walls had appeared as mere decoration, a small silver sigil on the barren grey surface of the planet. He had considered firing on them then. Obliterating them. Ending all the schemes in one grand show of power, the firepower of his Group and the power of his command. But then he remembered the satellites. Nothing could attack Base with those powerful sentinels in the sky. Slowly, go slowly, he had told himself. It would all be his in time, and he would be more powerful because of it.

  Already word of his command had passed through the Arm, the largest Group out of Base in hundreds, no thousands, of years. And, deliciously, Quartermaine had threatened the Planetary Council with him. How did the consortium like that! Proclaimed by this resolute band of professionals as the most fearsome leader in their Guard. A band that had defeated all that the Houses could throw at them on the Rim. Soon he would command them all. The prize the consortium sought would be his to deliver … or not. Control of the Passages. Not something for him to hand over lightly, not when the Guard on Base was his, whole and deadly. A force to be feared. Not to be trifled with.

  Perhaps he would punish the planet that held the Amazon. Bomb it back to barbarity for the affront to his command. A threat is like a prophesy, unfulfilled it loses meaning. His father’s words.

  The opportunity would arise if he wished it, of that he was sure. Fate waited at his side now, in place of inconsequential advisors. It treated his enemies as cruelly as he would himself, although, he had to admit, with perhaps more humour. Quartermaine had been driven to announce his own failing to the Planetary Council; the reputation that he held in this end of the galaxy as ‘The Dread of the Passages’, built over decades, lost in seconds. Because he thought to oppose me.