The Cresperian Alliance

by Stephanie Osborn

  The starships had entered atmosphere. They didn't operate as well there, but they were still the ultimate high ground. Crew members remote-controlled the cannons to take out large Snapper emplacements wherever they found them, all over the planet. Then the Space Marines took the point, other military units filling in.

  The hovertanks took on the Snapper runabouts, their disintegrator beams cutting through them like butter; word had come down about the PEP cannons’ ability to cause damage via sheer concussive force, so anything suspected of containing one was first eliminated by starship air support. Meanwhile, the snapper lasers were stopped by the quantum shielding on virtually all human fighting equipment.

  Soon the ground troops were learning to use the teleforce beams at long range; they functioned as artillery to take out entrenched Snapper units as effectively as the starships could. Concussion guns took out entire platoons of the inimical aliens, liquefying brains and internal organs within seconds. Disintegrators, whether hand held or mounted on tanks, the Earth troops discovered, could be used as shotguns with adjustable chokes, widening or narrowing the beam focus as needed.

  Gradually the humans forced back the Snapper infantry wherever they were found. But they fought to the last being. The final groups were taken out by tank cannons in a remote area of Siberia near the Chinese border.

  Aboard the USSS Lady Liberty, Admiral Wayne Terhune sighed with relief. The battle for Earth was over. And Earth had won.

  "One planet down, one to go,” he muttered to himself.

  Mop up was literal as well as figurative. Every field of battle was filled with the stench of Snapper guts. Finally the disgusted containment teams decided it couldn't be any worse, so they simply began cremating the alien bodies in huge pyres. Since the areas where these fires were lit didn't show signs of growing much plant life for awhile, they were careful—after the first few—to choose waste land. Damaged or destroyed buildings were bulldozed and used as the cairns over what few remains were left after the pyres.

  All units and craft not involved in containment were recalled to base. There, repair and patch work commenced, moving as fast as the personnel involved could manage.

  But in the infirmary of the Group, three seriously injured men were receiving more Crispy attention than anyone else.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 20

  In the sickbay at the Brider Enclave, three Space Marines were in critical condition. Corporal Jan Wersky had suffered a severe concussion and a fractured skull. Master Sergeant John Tomlinson had multiple fractures of the legs and pelvis, as well as internal injuries to the bladder, small intestine, and part of the descending colon, consisting principally of severe bruising; some hemorrhaging was in evidence.

  But by far the worst injured was Gunnery Sergeant Edward Bangler, who had a sharp shard of tank armor penetrating his abdomen. It had severed his small intestine and lacerated it in several other places. One edge had sliced into his ascending colon. The multiple injuries to his lower digestive tract had filled his abdominal cavity with potentially infectious material, in addition to allowing it to enter his bloodstream. The tip of the shrapnel had narrowly missed his vena cava, and was abrading the descending aorta with every beat of his heart. Should it succeed in perforating that artery, it would produce a massive hemorrhage that had the potential of rapidly bleeding him out.

  The only reason he had not died on the battlefield was due to the continual presence of his wife. Piki had done everything she could to minimize the damage, including temporarily sealing the wounds around the hunk of metal to slow blood loss, and decreasing his pulse to lessen aortal abrasion.

  Those three men were not the only wounded, of course. But with just over eighty Crispies, the Space Marines, at least, were in better shape for medical aid than much of the rest of the planet. They decided to divide themselves into teams of “doctors” and travel around to assist the most critically wounded, wherever possible.

  Before she left Cresperia, Mai Le Trung had been on the verge of developing a genetic engineering technique that would enable humans to heal wounds faster, inducing local bone marrow, red blood, and even skin cells to convert into pluripotent stem cells in the area of the wound. So now she and Gordon bent their minds to it with Jeri Leverson's and Sira Tomlinson's advice and knowledge—often communicated to Gordon via perception, as they were both very busy in the infirmary. In a few hours they had generated an inoculation that would initiate the regeneration process for lesser wounds, at least. More serious wounds would still require surgical intervention.

  So Mai and Gordon, as well as Gordon's four cousins, took the Cresperian teams and equipped them with the serum and replicators. Then the teams left the Enclave, intent on helping heal as many wounded as possible—as well as giving local doctors the ability to heal minor wounds such as cuts, bruises, and simple broken bones.

  "It'll partly give away the Cresperian healing ability,” Gordon sighed, “but we cannot leave things as they are."

  "Well, maybe not, honey,” Mai pointed out. “If everyone's careful to attribute it to the new serum, we'll still have our asses covered."

  "That's the cover,” General Washington had ordered. “Send the teams out on that plan. Converted Crispies will pose as humans, and non-converted Crispies will not disclose their perception."

  "Yes, sir,” Gordon acknowledged.

  Meanwhile, Dalunith, who'd had to deal with his own head injury, and his closest friend Frstiminith, who had been the principal coordinator in Dalunith's healing, took on Jan Wersky's concussion and skull fracture. Given the amount of damage Dalunith had had to deal with, it proved relatively simple, and in a few hours Wersky was healed, though still unconscious, sleeping off the aftereffects.

  Tomlinson's wife Sira, assisted by Chris Roberts and Jeri Leverson, worked on John. Physician Stephen Mallory helped them set the bones in Tomlinson's legs, then dosed him with Mai's gene therapy. Together the three Crispies speeded the process, knitting together multiple breaks as well as stanching the bruising and mild hemorrhage. Tomlinson, unlike the others, had regained consciousness on the rapid trip back to the Enclave. And though she had tried, Piki had been unable to do very much to ease his pain—she was simply overloaded, using her perceptive sense in a valiant effort to help all three men at once. So as his wife and friends worked on him, John sighed in relief.

  "That feels good, hon,” he murmured after awhile. “That's a hell of a lot better."

  "Good,” Sira responded, giving him a weary smile. “Because you scared the hell out of me."

  "Sorry. We didn't know they had one of those damn plasma projectile cannon things."

  "I know,” she whispered. “Lie still, now. We'll be done soon, and then you need to rest."

  "How are the others? I know Piki was okay..."

  "Not good,” Jeri remarked. “Well, I think Jan Wersky is doing all right now. He had a severe concussion and skull fracture. But Dalunith and Frstiminith jumped on that first thing."

  "Perfect team,” Tomlinson agreed. “What about Bang?"

  Sira, Jeri, and Chris glanced at each other. “I don't need a perceptive sense to get that,” Tomlinson said quietly. “Is he alive?"

  "He's alive, sweetheart,” Sira said. “But he..."

  "He has a hunk of metal stuck almost completely through his belly,” Jeri said bluntly. “Severed intestines, and it's sawing on his aorta. Piki, Peter, and Karen, the three British Crispies, are all working on him, along with Dr. Honeywell."

  "Oh shit,” John whispered, blanching.

  "Hush,” Sira ordered. “Lie back and rest. We're done with you now, and we're joining them to help. I think Dalunith and Frstiminith have already gone in there."

  "Okay,” Tomlinson said. “Sira—they're like you and me. Only... only they're even newer to this part of their relationship. You've got to..."

  "I know,” Sira soothed. “I know, John. We'll do everything we can.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Your
men may think you're a tough bastard, but I know better,” she grinned, and he blushed.

  "Let me know?” he asked.

  "As soon as we know something ourselves, Sergeant Tomlinson,” Jeri promised.

  The three Crispies left Tomlinson in bed to rest, and headed for the operating room.

  Piki, Peter Murphy, Karen Townshend, Dalunith, and Frstiminith were already in the room when they arrived. Dr. Honeywell and several medics, including Peggy Nunez, were there as well. Bang lay nude on the operating table, strapped down, his lower body covered with a sheet. Piki stood at his head with the anesthesiologist, her palms lightly on his head, helping to keep the pain at bay and his pulse rate low. The others concentrated on stanching the bleeding as Honeywell carefully cut down through layers of muscle to more easily extract the large hunk of shrapnel.

  Jeri, Sira, and Chris merged their perceptions with their colleagues and assisted. Sira moved to Bangler's head and eased into Piki's position. They looked at each other, and communicated with one glance, scarcely even needing perception: You move to help with the abdomen, it's easier. I'll do this; you need a break.

  "Suction,” Honeywell murmured as he reached the abdominal cavity. “Aw, blast. This is a mess."

  "Is he torn up badly?” Peggy asked softly.

  "Some,” Honeywell answered. “But the intestinal contents have contaminated the entire area. Clamp off the duodenum and the area of the ileocecal valve; that should at least slow down the mess. I'll clean it out the best I can, and you guys,” he nodded a masked head at the Crispies as his surgical team clamped each end of the small intestine, “will have to help make sure nothing gets infected. Add a bag of Cipro to that drip, Chuck,” he told the anesthesiologist.

  "On it, Bill."

  "Speaking of infection, it occurs to me to wonder if we have a possible pandemic with which to concern ourselves,” Piki commented as she worked on destroying the bacteria spread through Bang's abdominal cavity. Catching an infiltration of her husband's bloodstream, she focused her consciousness, and within moments that potential infection was eradicated.

  "Aw, damn,” Honeywell muttered. “Alien species, alien buggums."

  "Precisely."

  "I doubt it, Piki,” Jeri interrupted. “After all, many of the Zeng Wu and Galactic crews were in close contact with the Snappers —-especially the diplomats. And nobody caught anything."

  "Oh,” Piki murmured.

  "Still, our soldiers and many of our civilians got extensive contact with body fluids, planet wide,” Honeywell pointed out. “Better safe than sorry."

  Jeri nodded. “Agreed. This is your home world, after all, and you don't possess perceptive senses to clean up such things. I'm sure you'd rather be certain."

  "Peggy,” Honeywell ordered, “call forward and have that notion passed up to General Washington. We need to know as soon as possible if we've got a pandemic."

  "Yes sir.” Peggy moved to the intercom and murmured into it for a few moments, then returned. “In work, sir."

  "Okay, did you get contaminated making the call?"

  "No sir."

  "Good, because I need another set of hands here. Come hold this blasted chunk of tank while I try to get it loose without slicing him apart. Crispy team, keep on the bleeders. Human team, I want suction, lavage, and more suction, then—will I need sutures, guys?” he asked the Crispies.

  "For the large perforation, and for the main incision and puncture wound, yes,” Piki answered. “But it does not have to be as sophisticated as you would usually do. Merely hold it together until we can close it."

  "Got it,” Honeywell agreed with a nod. “Nurse, forehead."

  A nurse stepped forward with a disposable towel and mopped Honeywell's perspiring forehead.

  "Suction,” Honeywell ordered.

  "Suction.” A medic suited action to word.

  "Flush it all out,” Honeywell declared.

  Several medics directed streams of sterile saline over the lacerated intestines.

  "Suck it out,” Honeywell finished.

  The medic applied the suction cannula until the abdominal cavity appeared clear.

  "Okay, everyone, here we go,” Dr. Honeywell declared. “If we've done our stuff and we're careful, this will slip right out and we can start closing up. If we've missed something, we're gonna have blood everywhere. Keep that suction cannula ready, and have a couple liters of blood handy.” He took a deep breath. “Everyone ready?"

  "Ready, Bill."

  "Yes sir."

  "We have him, doctor."

  "Peggy, just hold the weight of the metal, and let me manipulate it, all right?” Honeywell verified.

  "Got it,” Peggy nodded.

  With delicate, rubber gloved hands, Honeywell eased aside Bang's small intestine. A gloved medic took over that task. Then Honeywell reached in and grasped the sharp end of the metal fragment, where it rested between the descending aorta and the vena cava. Working carefully, he shifted it back and forth until it was loose from the surrounding tissue—which was abraded, but not perforated, and merely held the fragment in place via weight—and pulled it straight back along the path it had entered. Peggy supported its weight, and within seconds it was free of Bangler's body.

  Several points oozed blood, but nothing gushed, to everyone's relief. Moments later even those had stopped, as the Crispies applied their every skill on this man one of their own loved so dearly.

  The surgical team acted swiftly after that, locating the largest perforations and essentially tacking them closed. Meanwhile the Crispy team carefully healed the smaller injuries: the cuts, scrapes, abrasions, and smaller perforations and blood vessel leaks. By the time Honeywell's team had the major internal injuries held closed, the smaller injuries were healed. Then the Crispies set to work on the large perforations, including the severed section of small intestine and the large laceration in the ascending colon.

  This took longer, and while the Crispies worked, the surgical team maintained lavage and suction, keeping the abdominal cavity clean. Chuck, the anesthesiologist, added a unit of blood to the drip; the mixture of blood, saline, anesthetic, and antibiotic that flowed into Bangler's neck became a deep pink.

  When that was done, Honeywell began stitching closed the peritoneum, various layers of muscle and tendon, and finally the skin. As he did so, he watched the tissues seemingly miraculously weld themselves together, leaving only a faint pink line. Not even any sign of scar tissue was visible when they were done. Honeywell sighed in relief.

  "He's gonna make it,” he pronounced. “I have to say, when he came in here, I wouldn't have given you a plugged nickel for his chances. He needed a miracle, and that's what I was praying for. I know you guys don't believe in a Supreme Being, and I hope you don't take offense. But you were the answer to my prayer today."

  "No offense taken, doctor,” Jeri Leverson said softly, putting an arm around a limp, pale Piki Bangler. “I've seen enough, since choosing to become human, to make me wonder a little if we've been interpreting our proofs correctly all this time, so I won't disparage your beliefs. I know this woman here,” she squeezed Piki's shoulders gently, “is as thankful for you as you are for us."

  "Indeed,” Piki murmured. “Thank you so very much, Dr. Honeywell. You are a good man."

  "So's your husband,” Honeywell responded gently. “Tomlinson told me, just before I came in here, that Sergeant Bangler deliberately took that shrapnel."

  "Wh- what?” Piki stammered, as the others watched.

  "I don't think my husband fully realized how badly Bang was injured, but he saw what he did in the last few seconds. He stepped in front of the impact point, Piki,” Sira confirmed. “He blocked the explosion from the rest of you—especially you—so you'd have a chance to get that battery changed, and save the others."

  "Oh, dear—” Piki broke off, knees weakening.

  "Get a chair!” Jeri exclaimed, holding her friend upright. Peter grabbed the stool the anesthesiologist offered, and shoved
it behind Piki. Together, he and Jeri eased Piki onto it, then Jeri unceremoniously shoved her head down to her knees.

  Honeywell knelt beside Piki. “It's all right, dear,” he murmured, soothing, “it's all right.” He peeled off bloody rubber gloves and threw them at the contaminated waste bin, then stroked her forehead lightly. “He's fine, and he's going to stay that way. Partly thanks to what you did in enhancing him, and partly thanks to your keeping him from bleeding to death on the way here; and partly thanks to the entire lot of people in this room.” He looked around. “Thank you, all of you. Now, let's get Sergeant Bangler into Intensive Care for awhile. When he comes around, we'll move him into a regular room. If you Crispies could see fit to sit with him in shifts, to keep down the pain, it sure would be good. I've found that the less pain medication I can give my patients, the faster they usually tend to heal. The meds suppress the metabolic rate, which partially governs cell turnover."

  "Yes, I can see where that might be,” Jeri agreed. “And I think we can all take turns doing that with all three of our patients. There are enough of us, and we are capable of long enough hours, that it shouldn't be a problem."

  "Although,” Dalunith remarked with a Crispy approximation of a smile—he and Frstiminith still had yet to fully complete their conversions, due to the rapid sequence of events—“certain members of the group, most notably Piki and Sira, should probably not be included in the rotation. I strongly suspect they may be partial to staying with certain of the patients."

  "Good point,” Karen Townshend agreed with a wide grin. “I think things are back to normal—on Earth, at least."

  "Provided we don't have a pandemic developing,” Peggy added, as the rest of the team prepared to move Bang to ICU.

  "Well, SHIT,” Waterman said with feeling, gazing at the video of the Chief of Crispy Operations. “You mean those sons of bitches may have gotten us yet?"

  "It's possible, Tom,” Caleb Washington noted. “I'm passing it up the chain. I didn't want to just lateral it; I thought it needed to have your stamp on it. But if I may offer some advice, I'd strongly recommend getting the Centers for Disease Control, and the World Health Organization, on it as soon as you can get the word out."