Battlestations

by S. M. Stirling

  Here were the major injuries that Celia had feared; yellow bands weren’t coming in the door at all, just red. Severed limbs (put it on ice, stop the bleeding, kill the pain, stem the shock, let the Hawking handle it), torsos ripped open, spurting arterial wounds, punctured and collapsed lungs. . . .

  Celia shoved doctors aside when they hesitated, taking over and scolding and swearing at her patients like some kind of cross between a first sergeant and a mother hen. “What in hell were you doing in bed, anyway? You’re gonna have to get yourself back up off that bunk in double time, mister, you hear me? Making all this shit for me to do—” Encouraging? It was the closest she could come. At least she was filling those unconscious ears with the sure message that they were going to live.

  They were people. They were her responsibility. And suddenly she found herself caring, caring passionately, that they would live.

  “Celia!”

  The urgency in that voice made her head snap up. Someone across the crowded OR waved frantically at her.

  Dr. Powers. He wouldn’t call her unless he needed her.

  She wriggled her way between the tables, across a floor slippery with cleaning solution and much-diluted blood—Nurse Ki’ilee was making certain that the OR stayed as clean as it could be. But when she reached Powers’s side and he made room for her, his white face did not prepare her for what she found on the table.

  Dr. Althea Morgan.

  Her mind froze; her body wanted to run and her soul screamed.

  Not again—not—again—

  Powers gestured at the massive chest wound. It looked as if she must have been reading something off her terminal when the explosion occurred; shards of razor-edged plastic and glass had ripped into her body, somehow sparing her face.

  I can’t—I can’t—

  “I can’t do this,” Powers said numbly. “I haven’t got that kind of skill.”

  “Nobody does—alone,” she heard herself saying. “Pull Urrrlerri off whatever he’s doing, and get me Nurse Merfanwy. And then take over for Urrrlerri.”

  She found her hands reaching for instruments; found herself going to work on the worst of the slashes, a puncture that threatened the lung.

  Found tears streaming down her face and soaking her mask. “Damn you, Althea Morgan,” she snarled as the two assistants arrived, and she put Merfanwy (incredible visual acuity and sight in the low UV) on picking out the near-invisible shards of glass, and Urrrlerri (tentaclelike fingers with incredible flexibility) to work on the abdomen while she did the lungs. “Damn you, you old bitch! How dare you talk to me like that and then do this to me? You psychotic bitch from hell! What did you think you were doing? You’re going to come out of this, you monster, I’m going to drag you out of this by your damn hair! If you even think of dying, I’m going to pump you so full of stim you’ll dance over to the damned Hawking! You hear me? You hear me?”

  Oblivious to the sideways glances from the rest of her operating team, she continued to rage at Morgan under her breath, alternately cursing her and telling her that she’d better not abandon her friend, leaving her to face the coming Ichtons alone.

  Ignoring the tears that threatened to blind her until her nurse sponged them away, her hands worked with maniacal speed; patching, suturing, making whole.

  Then it was over—someone wheeled Althea out—

  And there was no more time to agonize, for a sucking lung puncture was on the table in front of her, and another patient to curse back into life. Then another, and another—they had Walt’s face, or Janet’s or Althea’s—

  And she gave them all her curses, her tears, her skill—told them all they were needed, that they would live or she would, by all the gods anyone ever swore by, come after them!

  Suddenly, silence.

  The OR was empty. Not even a green bracelet in sight. She blinked once, looked around at the equally weary bodies around her, and slowly pulled off her facemask.

  There was someone at her elbow; someone she didn’t know, but in medical white, clean, with a look of concern and a little name tag that said “Dr. R. S. Rai.”

  “I’m from the Hawking,” he said, slowly, carefully. “We’ve got all your patients, Doctor. You did incredibly well, you didn’t lose anyone who made it this far.”

  “We didn’t?” she replied ingenuously.

  He smiled. “Not one. Six hours on your own and not a single one.”

  “Oh,” she said vaguely. “That’s fucking wonderful.” And she let him lead her off to a bed.

  “So,” Althea said the moment they let Celia into her room, “I’m a nasty old bitch, am I? And you were going to pump me full of so much stim I was going to dance over to the Hawking?”

  She grinned at Celia’s look of shock. “Told you that people heard what you said to them.” She lowered her voice, conspiraorially. “Did you know that there’s now a story going around about a foul-mouthed angel who wrestles victims right out of the hands of Death and then kicks their butts back to their bodies?”

  She laughed out loud at the look on Celia’s face, even though it hurt.

  “I—uh—”

  “I bet you didn’t even know you knew those words.” She reached out and took Celia’s hand. “Look—I snooped into your records, so I know about your friends. I’m sorry, Celia—”

  “But enough is enough,” the woman said, herself. “You were right. All I was doing was—anesthetizing. As soon as it wore off, something was bound to break.”

  It was Althea’s turn to be surprised, and Celia smiled—the first time she’d actually seen that expression on the woman’s face. “I’ve had some time to think—and to get a little help. I found a good female shrink on the Hawking, and an even better chaplain. Oh, I’m still a mess, but we all are, right?”

  “Right,” Althea said softly, with a silent salute to her own legion of dead. “That’s part of the price we pay, we survivors. Beats the hell out of the alternative.”

  Celia nodded, and the life in her eyes brought back a hint of that laughing girl of the graduation picture. “Speaking of beating the hell out of someone—” she said, a hint of humor starting to show—“I figured I’d snoop in your records while I was temporary admin head. And I found out that you fancy yourself as a go player.” From behind her, she whisked out a board and bag of stones, and placed them on Althea’s tray table. “So I thought I’d show you just where you really stand in the go hierarchy around here.”

  Althea raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

  “No.” Celia’s smile turned wicked. “That’s a promise.”

  “Care to make a little wager on that?”

  “Sure.” Celia licked her lips. “I take on the paperwork—against you taking on me.” Her look was challenging. “You’re degreed in head-shrinking. And I don’t intend to lose.”

  Althea felt a warm rush of irrational happiness. “The game or the friend?”

  “Either.” A shrug. “Maybe we don’t have much time. So I want to learn how to enjoy what time we have left. I figure you can do that and help me get my head straight.”

  “You’re on.” She selected black. “You know—I am the kind of person your parents warned you about. You’re about to learn things they never taught you in med school.”

  Celia just laughed. “Why do you think I made that bet?”

  REINFORCEMENTS

  It was confirmed that, as Anton Brand had feared, the two missing Ichton fleets had united and were moving toward Emry. In their effort the invaders were bypassing a number of usable, inhabited planets. This was a change of procedure that worried all of the strategists of the races united to fight them. Beyond the Fleet’s more effective warp drive, only the Ichtons’ predictability had so far enabled them to be met and defeated, even locally.

  One of the worlds bypassed was that inhabited by the Squarm—a young race, by local standards, that physically resembled Earth’s walruses. Initially reluctant to abandon the defense of their world, when the Squarm leaders realize
d how easily the Ichtons that had already passed would have overwhelmed their defenses, they agreed to contribute half of their space navy to the Fleet-led effort. The other half was retained to defend the planet against the numerous smaller bands of Ichtons appearing more frequently in the Core systems. Other nearby races followed this example, almost doubling in number, if not quality, the forces based on the Hawking. The appearance of allies gave a boost to the nearly negligible morale of the Hawking’s crew. It also placed a strain on the station as it strived to support almost twice the number of ships it had been designed for.

  The decision was made to intercept and divert the Ichton fleet. This would buy time for the Emry to complete the construction of new factories designed to build new orbital defenses based upon the most effective Fleet weaponry. The planet Emry was also supplying many of the resources needed to maintain and repair the Hawking and had to be defended if they were to continue the defense. So the battle began, but Brand had underestimated the determination of the Ichtons to punish and destroy any opposition. Rather than turn to face the new threat posed by the Fleet, the Ichtons’ combined fleet continued on toward Emry at full speed. Dropping out only to navigate, re-form, or snap at their pursuers. Unable to use its superior speed without leaving all their ally’s ships behind, the Hawking found itself in a stern chase. They followed the Ichton fleet, with individual units pushing ahead to engage their rear guard. The decisive battle Brand sought had, instead, degenerated into a running fight covering hundreds of light-years and several weeks. One in which the constantly reinforced Ichtons more than held their own.

  The arrival of over a hundred destroyers of the hundred forty dispatched from Tau Ceti months earlier was a second tremendous morale boost for the crew of the Hawking. Their crews were exhausted from the seven-month journey to the Core, but Brand had no choice but to throw them instantly into the battle.

  Along with mail, spare parts, and the latest trivid programs, the reinforcement fleet also brought a few unwanted visitors. Dealing with them proved a new challenge for even the combat veterans on the Stephen Hawking.

  TAKEN TO THE CLEANERS

  by Peter Morwood

  The lieutenant ran one finger around his tunic’s high collar, as though the garment were strangling him, then set all to rights again with a quick downward tug at the hem. Despite hours of pondering over real and imagined errors, he still wasn’t sure how he had pulled this particular duty; but he was fairly certain that he wasn’t going to like it much. There were too many cold eyes and rattrap mouths among the budgetary fact-finding commission for that.

  “If you’ll all just step this way. Yes, that’s right. Stand well clear of the doors, please. Mind the gap. All present and correct? Good. Now then. Welcome aboard the Battlestation Stephen Hawking, ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard. I’m glad to—”

  As the commission formed up in an untidy gaggle and its shortest members pushed to the front, his voice faltered. At least the blink of disbelief that had accompanied the stumble in his words had gone unnoticed. He hoped. The shrouded mike of the wall-mounted com unit beckoned. “Er, excuse me just one second.” His thumb hit the Transmit button just one second after that.

  “Channel five, engage privacy mute. Joe. Hey, Joe, you there?”

  Course I’m here. Where else would I be?

  “Hah! Where else would I be? sez you. Do you believe this guy? Don’t gimme that crap. I dunno where you’d be. Just run me a translator check. Right now.”

  Why d’you need a trans—

  “Uh, Joe, in case you haven’t noticed, the why is because you didn’t tell me there were Weasels in this bunch. Are the little fleabags getting a proper salutation?”

  Yeah, sure they are.

  “Gender and all?”

  Gender, rank specifics, even line-family enhancements.

  “Jeez, makes a change.”

  Gimme a break. We just finished a war with the furry little creeps. You think I want to start another—

  “Look, just give me some warning next time, willya? Okay? Yeah, yeah, you, too. And your mother . . .”

  The lieutenant let his face relax from the fixed grin it had adopted as com control came on line, Expression #27, We’re Fine, We’re All Fine, How Are You? and though his facial muscles wanted to go straight into #42, Sod This for a Game of Soldiers, he managed to resist the temptation. Rule One where the Civil Service was involved, never let the Buggers in the Suits know what you’re thinking.

  “Sorry about the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. Fleet business, security clearances, all that sh—stuff, you know how it is.”

  I don’t think.

  “My name is Neilson, Lieutenant Robert Neilson, and Commander Brand has assigned”—ordered—“me to look after you folks during this short guided tour of the Hawking. I’d like to take a few minutes before we start to advise you all of a few points—” which shouldn’t need repeating but then we’re dealing with Suits and not real people, aren’t we?

  “First, this station is on full active status, so military personnel will expect to have priority for use of the on-board transport net. Second, given the size of the Hawking, Internal Security recommends that it’s in your own interests not to go wandering off by yourselves. Yes, ma’am?”

  Ohshit.

  The woman who spoke was of that sort who, in an earlier historical period, would have worn a tweed two-piece suit and terrifying spiky-framed spectacles. Even though she, like the rest of the commission, was wearing the name-tagged coverall issued to all visitors who might be entering a variety of shipboard environments, she still managed to suggest that indefinable air of tweediness. Neilson concentrated for just long enough to get the gist of her question, then tuned out the rest.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said at last, “I understand that an economic analysis commission doesn’t expect to be treated like tourists.” It’s far too good for you.

  “Then, Lieutenant, since you understand, evidently your superiors also understand.” Even her voice sounded tweedy, like the nightmare of a librarian. “As the representatives of the Defense Committee who financed this battlestation, why do we need a chaperone in the first place?”

  “Because, ma’am, none of you know your way around.” And little fingers pushing little buttons could smoke half of this sector.

  “Are we considered incapable of asking for directions?”

  “No, ma’am. Of course you could ask for directions, but as I said”—and why weren’t you listening?—“this vessel is at active status, and—”

  “Lieutenant, do you mean, ah”—the man, a classic career civil servant whose coverall should have been in pinstripe, was fumbling for the military terminology through the filing cabinets of a brain taught to work in signed triplicates—“that we are at, ah, general quarters?”

  “No, sir, not general quarters. If we were at general quarters I wouldn’t be here.” And neither would you.

  “But even allowing that active status is more peaceful than general quarters, surely a civilian would have less call on his or her time than a military . . . ?”

  “I doubt a civilian guide would be as useful to the members of this commission as—”

  “Or is the military trying to keep this commission all to itself? What is the civilian administrator’s view?”

  “Sir, the administrator was consulted on the matter. Both Administrator Omera and Commander Brand thought it would be simpler if a Fleet officer acted as guide. It’s a matter of security.” Mine.

  The tweedy woman said something to her neighbor that Neilson couldn’t quite catch, but her tone was clear enough that he could guess the content of the words. He had heard something of the sort before. “No, ma’am. Not so that the commission’s access can be restricted. Quite the reverse. As Fleet personnel, I’m cleared to take you anywhere on the Hawking. A civilian guide would be restricted to civilian sectors only.”

  “And why is that, pray? The various civilian interests represented on board have pu
t quite as much money toward the development of this station as the military.”

  “That’s as may be, sir. It remains equally true that a civilian has no business to be in the military sectors. Yourselves excepted, of course, but then the bureaucratic arm is a sort of honorary military.” Neilson allowed himself to sink a small pin. “I believe that has to do with funding. Now, if you’ll all just follow me.” He cleared his throat and shifted into lecturing mode.

  “The nine deck levels immediately above this location are military in function. Further, there are eleven decks below that are entirely scientific and civilian. What isn’t widely understood is that, despite popular and romantic representations, the Fleet does more than just seek out new life-forms and new civilizations, and then blows them up. Unlike the Ichtons and the Khalians—excuse me, sir, it’s true and a matter of historical fact, you can’t deny twenty years of war—we are not aggressors. No sir, the Jrgen Stroop was a orbital bombardment platform purposely built for a single operation, Case White—yes, sir, economically built, from scrap parts—and never actually used. But given the existence of such aggressive species as I’ve already mentioned, it’s hardly surprising that a vessel like the Hawking needs to be well-armed. . . .”

  The little group had not gone very far along the corridor before a piercing scream shattered the silence and scattered the little gaggle of bored bureaucrats. Even though he knew he was safely on board an Alliance battlestation, even though he knew that there was nothing more dangerous behind him than a bunch of civil servants and a couple of tooth-drawn Weasels, Lieutenant Neilson was still flattened against the nearest bulkhead with his side arm drawn before he took time out to look back toward the source of the noise.

  He relaxed at once and returned his gun to its holster, watching as a small shape fled meeping past him and back into the safe shadows beyond the pools of maintenance-level light.

  “Shoot it! Why don’t you shoot it?”