Brand attempted to break off the pursuit after nearly twenty days of constant small battles. As the Fleet ships pulled back, the Ichton warships followed. There could be no respite. Too many ships had warped back toward the Hawking and any lapse in the pressure would release major Ichton formations from guarding the mother ships. Freeing them to attack the Stephen Hawking itself or nearby allied worlds.
So they continued as best they could. Fighting without respite. The not so lucky returned their torn and shattered men and ships for repair. Everyone assisted in maintaining the faith of the allies. Sometimes this last was hard to accomplish. This was even more difficult when it appeared the ally’s world might be the next Ichton target.
THE HANDMAIDEN
by Diane Duane
“Don’t just stand there,” Kashiwabara said. “Hold the retractor.”
I’m not just standing here, Sal thought. But all the same she took hold of the J-shaped thing and pulled. “Not that way,” Kash said irritably. “Welder, Junie. Thanks. More toward you, Sal. That’s the way.”
Kashiwabara was up to her elbows in the man, her eyes screwed half closed. To Sal she looked like a child at school, engaged in some particularly engrossing piece of work with modeling clay. It was not clay she was working with, though, but flesh, some poor man’s intestine. At least Sal thought it might be intestine. She had a general impression of wet glistening rounded shapes, of squelchy wet noises: and she wanted nothing more definite than that. This was hardly her proper business, and she didn’t intend for it to be so in the future, if she could help it.
O God—she started, and lost the thread again, her eyes widening in dismay as the air abruptly fizzed red around them all. “Didn’t think it would spurt like that,” Kashiwabara said, her voice bemused, her hands suddenly moving very fast, perhaps three times as fast as before. “That one, right there, Junie. The one next to it. Thanks. Should be right under there— There it is. Jeez, look at the state of it—how is the boy still with us? Guts.”
“A good anesthesiologist,” said a mild voice from the head of the table, down past the glow of the sterifields.
“You shut up, Belle. Don’t take the man’s credit. You barely know where to put the tubes. Junie, where’s the dish?”
“Here. Kash, is that going to be enough left?”
“You kidding? More than plenty. Twenty cells is enough to clone from in situ. In a week he’ll have a nice new spleen. Get the one down to Path, Junie, the ghouls’ll want it. Where’s the dittosplen?”
O God, Who holds all lives from their beginnings to their ends, Sal thought, keep this man in mind— Man, though: it was hard to see him as a man, at the moment. More a collection of tubes and oozing liquid, with the fields shimmering over everything and making it look unreal, like something out of a vid. Sal shook her head, abruptly angry with herself. There was a hell of a way for a chaplain to see one of her charges, as a thing rather than a—
“Getting to you, Sal?” Kashiwabara was looking across the body—the man—at her, with an expression that had just a little malice about it. No more than usual, she consoled herself.
“No,” Sal said. That was only partly true. When she had first seen the man brought in, only survivor of the Ichton attack on her little fleet, he had looked like someone much more in need of prayer than of the surgeons—burned, explosively decompressed when his suit gave: the debridement alone, before the surgery, had left Sal sure she was working with a corpse. People did not just lie and take the dreadful peeling off of burnt material and flesh fused to it that the man had undergone—not if they were alive. They woke up, and screamed. Sal’s nightmares rang with those screams. But the man had simply lain there, in shock so profound that he had noticed nothing; and then he had gone into the OR. Kashiwabara had taken all of ten minutes over him now—a surprising amount of time for her.
“He’ll live,” Kashiwabara said, in the matter-of-fact tone of voice of someone announcing the score of a football game some light-years away. “Whether he’ll like it—” She shrugged. “Fuser now, Junie. Thanks. Let go of that, Sal. Just take it out and throw it in the bucket. Junie, count the retractor out.” Kash took the fuser and wielded it, closing the operative site with negligent skill. “It’s not my table,” Kash said, to Sal this time. “I just patch them up. After that, they’re your business.” Her eyes were direct, cool, almost merry. Sal’s eyes burned. She looked away.
“Who’s next?” said Kash.
“Khalian,” said the circulating nurse, glancing at the wall screen. “Head trauma, enucleated eye, possible brain trouble. Contrecoup, they think.”
“Poor Weasel,” Kash said in that same cool voice. “Pull out a head tray and get him in here, and prepped. Him? Her?”
“Him.”
“Your table?” Kash said to Sal.
It was her table, of course. But she said, “I’ll pass on this one. Back in a while.”
Kashiwabara nodded. “I need a new skin,” she was saying as Sal shouldered out of the OR. “Try getting me one a size larger—”
She leaned against the wall of one of the many corridors up in the Blue and fought to slow her heartbeat down. People passed her, glanced at her, glanced away with expressions of pity or concern. With the battle going on over their heads, everyone was busy: but her uniform singled her out for their pity. It was standard Fleet uniform except for the dog collar, and the tabs with the Uniform Religious Insignia on it, the circle with the dot in the middle. “The Holy Ovum,” Ricky Woods had called it while they were in the Fleet orientation course together, how many years ago now? . . . And there had been quite a few other names, most of them rife with innuendo. Where was Ricky now? Sal wondered. Was she even alive? . . . Or in the body, rather. Sometimes, of late, in the rush and fury of a war that could mean the end of whole civilizations, it was hard to remember that there were more important things, more meaningful things, than mere physical life.
So she had always believed, anyway.
And do I believe it now?
Sal pushed the thought away, straightened herself up, tried to look a little less doleful. There was nothing more depressing, to the onlooker, than a depressed minister. Her job, here and now at least, was to help people find their way to their strength; and if she chanced to be able to be useful in some other way as well—like holding a retractor—she did that. Though it was hardly her primary function.
Not that some people seemed to realize it. Make yourself useful, Kashiwabara had said, very casually. Or is it just my own uncertainty showing? We all have these periods of not being sure what we’re for—but this one has lasted longer than usual. What real good have I done anyone here? Sometimes I think I should just go out on combat duty and get killed like the rest of them—
Her pager beeped. She sighed and pulled it out to look at its little screen. It said, my office, please, immediately. F.
Sal took herself off along the corridor in a hurry. Frank Arnasson was no one to keep waiting, especially in the middle of a war: nor at any other time. He was coordinator for Inhabitant Resources aboard Hawking, and Sal’s immediate superior. He did not take his own position seriously, since it involved coordinating things as disparate and low profile as Food Services and Janitorial; and Frank always growled about how his title and a few credits might get him a cup of soup on some benighted world where no one knew any better. But there were few people who could quicker get you in deep trouble than Frank if he suspected that you weren’t doing your job.
She took the lift down two to Blue Three and trotted along the corridor to 270, where Frank’s office was. Sal paused only long enough to get her breath back and yank her tunic into place, then buzzed.
The door snapped open for her. She stepped in and saw Frank hunched behind his desk as usual, eating something, a food bar of some kind. Nothing unusual there: Frank was the worst person she had ever seen for snacking at his desk—he never stopped. Standing across from him, though, watching him with an expression that at first glance s
eemed like mild interest, was an Emry.
Sal paused there as the door hissed closed behind her, and the Emry turned to look at her. It was in Fleet uniform, very dark and simple, but oddly decorated with something unusual—a silver chain, very massy, like the ceremonial chains that Sal had seen in pictures of mayors from some parts of Europe, back on Earth. The chain shifted as the Emry tilted its head to look at her, revealing a glint of gold on the low-cut collar of its uniform. It was the Holy Ovum.
Frank put aside his food bar and folded his hands, looking at Sal, too. His honest, ugly face, big and blunt, with its potato nose and little eyes, smiled slightly as if she were the solution to a particularly thorny problem.
“Fleet Chaplain Salvatora Arkas,” Frank said, “Fleet Chaplain Ewa n’Vhuurih.”
The Emry bowed, a graceful gesture, but his head did not bow, and his eyes never left Sal’s. For a moment she was lost in those golden eyes, then she blinked, taking in the beauty of the dark pelt with its faint pattern of darker spots, and the long nose with the abrupt patch of pink at the end. This, fortunately, was one aspect of her chaplaincy that was easy for her. She had never had trouble seeing the Creator in species that were alien to her own. The problem, perhaps, was that she had sometimes been too good at it, and this could be impolitic, when all the energies of one’s highest superiors were being vested in hating one of those species or, worse, manipulating it.
“Chaplain,” Sal said, wondering how she looked to those golden eyes. And the question rose immediately to mind: What sort of religion do they have? No one had even mentioned the word in connection with them before.
“The chaplain,” Frank said, “is the Emry’s first member of your service. I want you to make him welcome, show him around, see that he’s properly oriented . . .”
The Emry made a gesture that looked like someone casting something to the ground in front of himself: plainly ceremonial, though what it might mean, there was no telling. A touch of excitement began somewhere down inside Sal. How do they see You? she said to the One Who listened. What might we find out from them? Thank You for this opportunity—
“I thank you for your help,” the Emry said. “This means a great deal to us.”
Sal shivered slightly. The translator might convey words, but the voice was more clearly that of an animal than any alien voice she had heard before: it was almost furry around the edges.
“You’re very welcome,” Sal said. “Have you been quartered?”
“Go on, go on,” Frank growled, and picked up his food bar in one hand and a stylus in another. “Take care of the amenities elsewhere. You two have work to do, so do I—”
Sal glanced at the Emry and found what looked like the same expression of slight amusement there. They headed for the door together, and as it closed behind them, the Emry said, “A sudden sort of creature.”
Sal laughed. “He is.”
“I am up in Yellow,” the Emry said. “A comfortable enough little den. It is diplomatic quarters, if I understand these things correctly. Perhaps better than I would normally be given, if those here understood my function. Or if I did.” His jaw dropped in that amused look again.
Sal nodded. “We all spend a while trying to find out exactly what we’re supposed to be doing here,” she said. “For humans in our service, at least, there are certain basic duties. Rotation through the various kinds of religious service—there’s never time to do them all in one day, so we take turns—”
“We,” said the Emry. “There are more than one of you, then?”
“Normally there would be.” It was surprising that Sal’s eyes could still start stinging again over this issue: she had thought it was settled. “There were three of us on board—enough to cover, it was thought. We managed, just barely. But some of the ancillary craft needed coverage, those staff went off to take care of business there—” Sal shrugged. “One of them was killed during an Ichton attack while he was performing a wedding. The other—we have no idea what happened to the ship: it just never came back. Probably Ichton again.”
So uncaring, said the raspy voice in Sal’s memory, what else should it be in this part of space? That had been Larry’s constant refrain, always a little sad, always with a slight edge to it, as if he held God personally responsible for the mismanagement of the whole galactic situation, and was daily expecting Him to do something about it. Larry had gone about all his work with that same slight impatience and irritation, but always unfailingly good-natured: he was one of the most simply loving people Sal had ever known. And now he was gone, with the captain and the first officer of the little ship to which he had traveled. Doubtless, though, he had gotten the job done. Sal was sure they had been married for at least several seconds before they were dead.
“And now you are alone here,” the Emry said.
Sal raised her eyebrows. “Inasmuch as any of us are ever really alone,” she said, “yes.”
The Emry looked puzzled at this, and his tail thumped. It was a short one, making the gesture look peremptory, almost annoyed. But there’s no telling, Sal reminded herself. I must be careful not to anthropomorphize the gestures of a species we don’t know very well as yet—
“I should like to see what you do in a given day,” said the Emry, “if there is no prohibition against it.”
“I think that was the general idea,” Sal said. “No, there’s no prohibition. Come on, I’ll show you the chapels.”
They went up three levels and made their way about halfway around the curve of Hawking. “Here we are,” Sal said, and touched the door panel. It slid open: they went in.
The Emry looked around, blinking solemnly. “But there is nothing here. Just a table.”
Sal laughed. “The dangers of a nondenominational chapel. We can dress it as necessary. Shinto, Jewish, various flavors of Christian, Buddhist, you name it.”
“Flavors,” the Emry said thoughtfully as Sal went over to the holography panel. “This is a matter of taste, then.”
Sal chuckled at the joke . . . then wondered if it was one, as she saw that puzzled-looking expression on the Emry’s face again. She touched the panel and said, “Here’s one of the standard Christian configurations.”
The light on the bare walls shifted, and a radiance grew near the ceiling, as of stained glass somewhere above; the cross, very plain, appeared over the table, which was now made plain as an altar. “Solid artifacts we keep stored in the next room,” Sal said. “Candles, canopies, and whatnot. The usual equipment.” She looked curiously over at the Emry and said, “Do you use such things?”
He shook his head, looking up into the radiance. “No,” he said.
Sal looked at him. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what to call you.”
“H’ewa,” the Emry said.
“H’ewa . . . I’m very curious, but I don’t want to break any prohibitions either, and I have no idea what sort of rules you might have about your worship—”
“Very few,” H’ewa said, and blinked. “You mentioned—‘Shinto’?”
Sal nodded and touched the panel again. The light shifted once more, falling into squarish patterns of brightness and dark, evoking a feeling of screens pulled across a source of light outside. The sound system cut in and from somewhere off in the middle distance came the sound of bass voices intoning one of those scalp-raising triple-voiced chants to the Jewel in the Lotus. “I know a few of the chants myself,” Sal said, “but they’re hard on the throat. Not any of the serious ones, though, the healing chants: almost all the masters who knew them died a long time ago, and the recorded ones just don’t seem to work the same. . . .”
H’ewa nodded—that gesture, at least, they seemed to have in common. “You would use this room fairly frequently for your—‘worship,’ then.”
“Yes. You do it otherwise?”
“It is not a personal matter? One must have a special place to perform it?”
Sal shook her head. “Not necessarily. Some religions feel that worship works best in
groups, that’s all. Other say not: that each person makes his own choices, and needs no mediator between himself and the First Cause.”
“What do you say?” H’ewa said, looking again at Sal. It was a direct expression, a little challenging.
“Well—” Sal leaned against the wall. “I was trained first as Church of Mars, of course, and your first training tends to color your thinking somewhat. So I tend to believe, in common with other people of my sort, that God made the world, but the world became marred: so to redeem it, He descended into it Himself, first as man, and in other times, in other shapes, to draw the natures of those kinds of beings into His own.”
H’ewa nodded, but his face was getting that perplexed look again. “ ‘Believe,’ ” he said. “You don’t know?”
“Well, historical proof is an oxymoron half the time,” Sal said. “Hard enough to tell what really happened ten minutes ago, or ten hours, as opposed to what a ‘historian’ would say. But—” Then she stopped, seeing the look of perplexity on H’ewa’s face intensifying. “No,” she said. “No, of course I don’t know—that’s the whole point of faith. No one can ever know for sure, or have Deity proven to them past all doubt. The mere physical nature of the universe won’t permit it. Belief is all we’ve got.”
“But other ‘flavors’ say differently?” H’ewa said. There was a sound of urgency creeping into his voice.
“Well, some say that knowing is possible, but unnecessary for the assured soul.” Sal was beginning to sweat, not least because she had no idea where all this was going. “Some say that neither God, nor the universe symptomatic of Him, care whether you believe in them: that belief itself is unnecessary. Just as believing in the table is unnecessary, because it’s there whether you believe in it or not. Even if you can’t perceive it.”
H’ewa turned away, looking troubled. “H’ewa,” Sal said, “I want to help, truly I do. Tell me what the trouble is.”
The Emry turned back to her. “Who knows?” he said. “Who knows what the truth is?”
Battlestations Page 48
