Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  * * *

  Capt. Carla Ferracci was waiting when the airlock opened. Carrington and McGarrity stripped off their helmets and quickly released the straps that held the injured gunner on the jetsled. As McGarrity released her helmet and began tugging it off, Carla was already bending over her, releasing the pressure suit and pulling it open.

  The gunner's eyes still reflected the pain of her injuries. Had she been Caucasian she would have been pale from blood loss. Instead, Carla noted other signs, in particular the reaction of her fingernails to pressure; instead of turning pink, they remained bluish, suggesting a lack of oxygenated blood.

  "Let's get her into sickbay," Carla ordered in an even voice that nevertheless betrayed her concern. "Luis!"

  Pharmacist Mate 1/c Luis Grijalva had just arrived with a hoverstretcher and the three men quickly lifted the gunner onto it. As Luis began to move off, the gunner turned her head toward the two men who'd rescued her.

  "Thank you," she said weakly.

  "You're bloody welcome, Judy," McGarrity grinned. "You get better now, right? I'll come see you."

  She managed a grimacing smile and nodded.

  "I … I forgot your name," she whispered.

  "I'm McGarrity. And this is Dennis. He did all the hard work."

  Her eyes shifted to Carrington, who was now all smiles as he gripped the hand she raised tentatively in his direction.

  "Get well, Judy," he said.

  "Thank you. Thank you both."

  As the hoverstretcher disappeared into the sickbay, McGarrity returned to the console where Willie had monitored the rescue on his terminal. McGarrity touched an intercom switch and spoke to the cockpit.

  "Kept'n, we got the gunner. She's alive. Telemetry from the GF says the pilot's dead. You want us to recover him?"

  "How long will it take?" Carson's voice replied.

  "Not more'n fifteen minutes, at a guess. Unless he's trapped in there; we haven't checked on him yet."

  "Any chance he might be alive?"

  "Always a chance, sir. Computers ain't always right after they've been shot to shit."

  Carson took a brief moment to confer with Lt. Ho.

  "We don't have anything on the threat monitor, Gunny. Go ahead and check on him. If it's not too difficult, bring him aboard."

  "Right, myte, will do."

  The computer hadn't been wrong. The GalaxyFighter pilot was dead, his body riddled with fragments from the warhead that had wounded Judy Rogers. He appeared to have taken the bulk of the shrapnel, while she'd only taken two fragments. The cockpit was damaged beyond repair, nearly every dial and monitor shattered by jagged steel, no air pressure at all. Fortunately, though the body was badly traumatized, it wasn't trapped, and McGarrity managed to free it after only two or three minutes' work. The late pilot's name was 2/Lt. George Haverstock.

  With his body on board and stored in the "icebox"— a grim compartment reserved for just such an eventuality — Willie Wolters released the GalaxyFighter from the tractor beam, giving it a nudge toward the planet. Within a few days it would be pulled into Saturn's atmosphere and destroyed. There was no point leaving space junk floating over the battle area and, in any case, it was never a good idea to let the enemy recover a damaged spacecraft, though it couldn't always be prevented. Carson heaved a sigh of relief and applied power, sending the ResQMed away from its current position as they set course back toward the carrier.

  The entire operation had taken thirty-nine minutes.

  * * *

  Carla Ferracci bent over her latest patient with concern in her dark eyes; her thick black hair was pulled back behind her head and tied. The datatag from the Rogers girl's neck, when placed in a reader, gave a lot more information than just her name, rank, and serial number. It revealed blood type, DNA, and genetic data, as well as a psychological profile and medical history. There was nothing abnormal about the girl except that she had a rare blood type — O Negative — but Carla was more than a little concerned about her condition.

  Judy Rogers was nineteen years old according to her datatag, not unusually young for fleet gunners. In today’s action Judy had taken both fragments in her liver. It was starting to fail. The girl had lain in that turret for nine hours before rescue, which didn't improve her odds at all.

  In service parlance, Carla was called a combat surgeon, but in reality she wasn't a surgeon at all. In fact, she wasn't even a real doctor, though she needed only one more year of medical school to earn the cherished letters behind her name. Even so, she was performing surgery here in the sickbay of the ResQMed, temporary though it was. If Judy Rogers were to live long enough to reach Sadat's sickbay, her liver had to be repaired. The girl had lost a lot of blood but that wasn't a major problem now – synthetic O Negative was in stock. But no artificial liver was on board, and the carrier was at least twelve hours away.

  Louise Chin, pharmacist's mate 2/c, assisted, and as Carla worked she looked more and more worried. She called off vitals periodically and watched while Carla sweated. It was the second emergency surgery they'd done today, and the first hadn't turned out well at all. A young pilot had died while they labored over him – too many hours had passed between his injury and his rescue. Neither woman was in the mood to lose another one.

  It took two hours. With the limited equipment available they did the best they could, but Carla didn't know if it would hold. If the liver opened and hemorrhaged before they reached the carrier, Judy Rogers would die.

  When they finally finished and the youthful gunner was resting quietly in the intensive care cubicle, Carla sighed wearily and made the rounds of her other patients. They'd picked up seven since leaving the carrier yesterday; except for Judy Rogers, all had only minor injuries, or none at all. They'd also recovered four bodies, including Judy's pilot and the pilot who died in surgery. Three others had been left behind, too badly mangled to salvage.

  Carla left the sickbay at 2200 hours and stumbled into the wardroom. Capt. Carson was there, just finishing a prepackaged meal he had microwaved himself. He looked up and spotted the fatigue on her face.

  "You look a lot worse than I feel," he said. "How's it going?"

  "I hate this fucking job!" she replied in a heavy Italian accent as she sank heavily into a chair. "How long is this goddamned war going to last?"

  "Long time."

  She rubbed a hand over her face and sighed.

  "Your optimism is refreshing."

  "Can't tell you a lie," he said as he tossed his meal container into the recycle chute. "The only way to end it sooner is to let the other side win."

  She shook her head. “How long back to Sadat?" she asked.

  "Nine or ten hours. Your patients okay?"

  "Most of them. One critical."

  "Which one?"

  "The last one. She's losing her liver. If we don't get there in time she'll go into a coma. We could lose her."

  He shook his head. "You won't lose her. You're too good a doc for that."

  "I lost one already, James."

  "I have confidence in you."

  Carla sighed wearily.

  "I wish I did," she murmured.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, 12 October, 0227 (PCC) – Berkeley, CA, North America, Terra

  Regina Wells raised her hand and Dr. Elliott stopped talking in midsentence. The gallery froze as the slender hand remained high while Elliott stared in disbelief. It was absolutely forbidden to interrupt him during a lecture, a fact he'd drilled into them at the beginning of the semester; it was almost a law on campus that you didn't raise your hand in Elliott's class unless he invited you to.

  After an interminable ten seconds, during which the entire class held its collective breath, Elliott closed his mouth.

  "Number one, or number two, Miss Wells?" he asked acidly.

  One or two students tittered, but the rest waited. Something momentous was coming. Regina's hand remained aloft.

  "Very well, Miss Wells. What is it?"

  "D
r. Elliott," Regina said in a clear voice, her lightly-speckled green eyes fixed on his face, "have you ever had a real job?"

  Deadly silence followed. The class seemed to exist in a vacuum where no sound could be heard. Elliott's eyes appeared to change color as they expanded and contracted. The cheeks above his scraggly beard slowly turned crimson. He didn't answer at once, and Regina stood up, five feet two inches and one hundred nine pounds of red-haired nitro.

  "The reason I ask," she said, her voice still clear as crystal, "is that I've never heard so much pure, unrefined bullshit in the last nineteen years."

  "Get out!" Elliott huffed, finding his voice. "Get out, goddamn you!"

  "Oh, I intend to, sir!" she said. "But not until you answer the question. Have you ever had a real job?"

  Elliott took two steps forward, pointed at her with a stubby finger that trembled with adrenaline.

  "Out!" he bellowed. "Right now!"

  "No, sir!" she said. "Not until you answer my question."

  "Then I will remove you!"

  "If you lay a hand on me you'll be arrested for assault, sir! Have you ever had a real job?"

  He started up the aisle toward her, puffing with the exertion.

  "You goddamned little whore!"

  "I believe that's defamation of character, Dr. Elliott. Care to go for assault and battery? How about sexual harassment?"

  He was within two feet of her, but pulled himself up with an effort. He dared not touch her, not in front of seventy-two witnesses, especially after her implied threats.

  "Get out of my lecture!" he hissed. "You're finished in this university."

  "No, sir. We live in a democracy, something you seem to know nothing about. Do you stand by your statement a few minutes ago that Sirius was justified in its oppressive racial policy?"

  "I refuse to debate with you!'

  "Oh, I see! You just shovel it and we swallow it, is that it? I was under the impression we were expected to use critical thinking in this school. Perhaps I was mistaken — maybe it's just party doctrine instead. White supremacist party doctrine! You, Dr. Elliott, are a racist!"

  "You will not speak to me in that fashion! Get out!"

  She cocked her head sideways, green eyes flashing.

  "I will not speak to you in that fashion? Yet I am a goddamned little whore?"

  "Out!" he croaked.

  Regina picked up her books and stepped past him, walked down the aisle to the front of the room, and turned, facing Elliott and the rest of the class. Seventy-two other students sat mesmerized, staring at her with rapt attention.

  "No, Dr. Elliott," she said. "Not yet. Not until I explain something to you. Everyone in this room — all of us — paid our tuition with the expectation of receiving value in return. Instead, here we are in Sirian Philosophy, and all you can tell us is why the Sirians are justified in waging war against us! Whose side are you on?"

  Elliott trotted down the steps toward her, puffing with rage. He was almost comical, his tweed jacket flapping, his ponytail flying, the whites of his pockets showing because he invariably wore his pants two sizes too small. Before he reached her, Regina continued.

  "It's been said that people who couldn't make it in the real universe go back to school and teach. That's why I wondered if you ever had a real job?"

  He reached her and stopped again, daring not touch her. He pointed to the door, speechless in his fury.

  "Debate me, you coward!" she shouted. "Or are you afraid to? You're so used to just standing here and shoveling it that you can't even entertain an opposing view?"

  "I will not debate you! You are out of order! Get out!"

  "I will get out. After you debate me! You owe me the chance to air my views. You owe all of us! If I'm wrong, then prove it with facts!"

  His eyes glittered on the edge of insanity, and she thought for one terrible moment that she'd overplayed her hand. Then a male voice, behind him, broke the silence.

  "Go ahead, you old fart! Debate her!"

  Elliott spun so quickly he almost lost his balance. His eyes roved the gallery in desperation.

  "Who said that?"

  An uneasy stir rustled through the sophomores. Glances were exchanged, but no one spoke. Then, slowly, a graduate student stood up. He looked like an athlete, tall and cleancut, not really handsome, but rugged. His steady gaze locked onto Elliott's watery stare.

  "I did," said Wade Palmer. "You're not afraid of her, are you, sir?"

  The even manner in which it was said seemed to defuse Elliott. Elliott panted for a moment, then ceased to tremble. He turned slowly and looked at Regina, who still waited to be heard. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he turned and walked toward his lectern.

  "This is absolutely unprecedented!" he said to no one in particular. "Positively outrageous!" He reached the lectern, then spun to face the red-haired girl. "All right, Miss Wells. In view of your extreme youth and obvious lack of sophistication, I will indulge you this one time. There is something you wanted to ask?"

  Regina stared in surprise for just a moment, then glanced toward Wade Palmer, who still stood. Her eyes gleamed briefly, and she faced Elliott again.

  "Dr. Elliott, in the course of your lectures you make statements that need clarification, yet you never let us ask questions. I don't think that's right."

  Elliott didn't answer. His eyes were like coals now, burning at her. She opened a databook and scrolled through the pages.

  "Last week, for example. You said, 'For eighty-five years the Sirians have had the most stable economy of all the inhabited worlds. They are therefore worthy of admiration and emulation.'" She looked at him with open challenge in her eyes. "Do you stand by that statement?"

  He nodded jerkily, as if he didn't quite get her point.

  "Of course. Why not?"

  "Why not? Because thirty percent of the Sirian economy is based on the slave trade! Millions of human beings living in bondage! You don't have a problem with that?"

  He shifted impatiently. "Was there something else?"

  "Yes. Oh, yes!" She scrolled another page, lifted a finger, and began to read again. "This was also last week. 'The Vegan monarchy must be held responsible for the Sirian invasion of 0195. If Vega had supplied Sirius with vital commodities there would have been no need for invasion. Sirius was forced to invade or face economic ruin … '" She stared at him as if he were crazy. "Dr. Elliott?"

  "It's absolutely true! Certain resources were no longer available in quantity on Sirius. Vega was able to supply that demand, but selfishly refused!"

  "My God!" she whispered hoarsely. "Sirius wanted Vega to sell them women!"

  "Miss Wells, you have to remember that Sirians think differently than you do. To you it might seem outrageous that Sirius wanted to buy women for their slave trade. Obviously the Vegans found it outrageous. But to the Sirian mind it was perfectly logical. They saw no reason why Vega could not sell them surplus females, especially since Sirius was suffering a recession as a result of the drop in live slave sales."

  "You don't find that outrageous, Dr. Elliott? You think Vega was wrong?"

  "Miss Wells," he said haughtily, "I am a philosopher. I view the issue from a purely philosophical perspective!"

  Shaking her head, she scrolled two more pages.

  "This was on Monday. I quote: 'The United Solar Federation would be well-advised to negotiate with the Sirian Confederacy. Fighting them is pointless. Proper concessions in the area of commerce could — and should — avoid further bloodshed.'" She looked at him again, her question unasked, waiting for his response.

  "I take it you have a problem with that statement, Miss Wells?" he said evenly.

  "You bet I do!" she replied. "First of all, we were negotiating with the Sirians. They attacked us while we were doing just that. And second, these 'concessions in the area of commerce' you're talking about is my body. If you're suggesting that the Federation should sell women to the Sirians, then I have a very real, very personal probl
em with that!"

  Elliott actually smiled at her.

  "I hardly think you need worry, Miss Wells," he smirked. "I'm certain even the Sirians have better taste than that!"

  Regina stared at him in horror as several other girls in the classroom gasped. Elliott's attempt at humor crashed and burned. He realized it, and coughed into a closed fist.

  "Anything else, Miss Wells?"

  "Yes. Ten minutes ago you said that Johnny Lincoln's death was no loss to humanity. You said he was a … a … "

  "Mercenary," Elliott finished for her. "He was a militaristic barbarian, a hired killer. A throwback to the Dark Ages. And so he was. I realize that millions were infatuated with him, but what did he ever do to further the cause of civilization? What do any of them do, those fighter pilots, buzzing around the darkest reaches of space at the end of an oversized Roman candle, dealing death and destruction to their fellow man? We don't need their kind, Miss Wells. We need cooler heads, people who know how to establish dialogue, who operate with reason. Johnny Lincoln reaped what he sowed. The worlds are better for his loss."

  Regina's eyes filled as she bit her lip with hatred.

  "I knew Johnny Lincoln, Dr. Elliott!" she managed in a voice that cracked with pain. "I knew him most of my life. I find your observations insulting. More than that, they're reactionary, unlearned … "

  "Unlearned!" he bellowed. "How dare you … "

  "How dare you!" she shouted back. "You can go to hell!"

  "If you're quite finished, Miss Wells, … I’ve indulged you long enough. I want you out of my lecture. Right now."

  She snatched up her books and turned for the door, angrily blinking back her tears. He watched with pompous satisfaction until she was gone, then, with a little smile, turned back to the seventy-two students still seated.

  "Well, that worked out quite satisfactorily!" he sighed. "If anyone else has any ideas about … "

  He stopped abruptly. Wade Palmer was on his feet again, picked up his books, and made his way to the aisle. He descended the steps and started toward the door. Halfway there he stopped and turned back.

  "Dr. Elliott, my dad was killed two years ago fighting the Sirians. I don't think I can handle any more of your 'philosophy'."