Outward Bound

by Juanita Coulson

  "Dad...?"

  "They're all going to die," he said in a trancelike way, staring into nothing. "Everyone. My father, my mother, Pat, Mari, Kevin ... not Morgan, too!"

  His daughter and his aides and the pilots tried to encourage him. One aide ran to fetch a medic who might administer a sedative to the distraught older man. Brenna kept murmuring to him, not getting through.

  ...never did recover Ward's body after that plane crash. And I watched Pat and Mother die. Couldn't do a damned thing to stop them from killing each other. I thought nothing could hurt that bad. But then Mari died, and so did Kevin. Never recovered their bodies, either. They ... they had so many good years left. They shouldn't have died. My kid sister, and that lovable bear of a man ... and Mari... Mari wasn't even as old as Jael was when ... when ... everyone in this accursed family is doomed to die before reaching his parents' age."

  "You haven't," Brenna reminded him as gently as she could. There was finally a flicker of recognition in his dark blue eyes. He focused on her with difficulty. "You're older than my grandmother was," Brenna said, "or than your father was when he was killed. Remember? You told me about..."

  "And I don't want to be the sole exception to the rule. I won't be!" He suddenly swept Brenna into his arms, holding her in a painfully tight embrace. After an endless moment, Todd Saunder gave his daughter space to breathe, but he didn't let go. "If ... if you go on this way, kitten, you'll die ... die just like Mari did in that damned faster-than-light ship!" He choked on his grief, sobbing. "So young! You're so young, kitten. Younger than they were ... and they're all dead. All of them! The people I loved so much! You're going to die before I will. You and Morgan. Both dead."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Picking Up the Pieces

  Brenna continued to reassure him. It didn't work, though her father gradually came back from that dark, haunted place where he had been. He was enough in control to refuse drugs when the aide returned with some medics. Brenna glanced up and saw Dr. Helen Ives and another physician standing beside Todd Saunder, frowning, assessing his condition. Behind them, Brenna saw other new arrivals to the lounge—the hospital's liaison officer, escorting Aluna Beno. Tumaini's wife seemed clad in ice, distant from everyone, but in a quite different way than Todd Saunder had been moments before.

  "Brenna," Dr. Ives said, "this is Dr. Stefan Dybas, chief of Emergency Services here."

  "Are they stabilized?" Brenna asked bluntly, too tired to be sociable.

  Dr. Dybas had been trying to smile. He gave it up. "Uh ... shall we go into a conference room? It's pretty public out here."

  Herded along, apprehensions growing, they adjourned as he had suggested and settled into a nearby closed area. The hospital liaison stayed. So did one of Todd Saunder's aides. They offered to fetch caffeine or soothants, especially pampering Todd and Mrs. Beno. Both of them refused, sitting tensely, waiting. Brenna's father was like a man dreading a blow; Aluna Beno, an unsmiling black statue. None of the pilots sat down. They leaned on the bulkhead, challenging the doctors with their eyes, deliberately stony-faced. Bad news was coming, and they were pulling their ranks together, comrades against danger.

  Helen Ives took the lead. "Aluna, Tumaini's coming along nicely. We think with some luck, he's going to make it. He took some radiation, of course, and he's got some severe burns, especially on his legs. But we've debrided the wound areas, and he's responding very well to the allografts and anti-infection therapy..."

  Dr. Dybas nodded encouragingly. He caught Helen's subtle hint and didn't approach Aluna Beno. Tumaini's wife took the good news with no change of expression whatsoever. Brenna wpndered what was going through the woman's mind.

  There was a pained silence. Yuri found his courage first. "What about the others?"

  This time, Dr. Dybas took the burden off Helen's shoulders. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Miss Polk died a short while ago."

  Brenna groaned, her vision blurring. Grief stunned her. She imagined Joe Habich learning this terrible news. Joe and Rue had been very close these past few months. More than anything else, he would somehow feel responsible and guilty, because he had been at the first completed-hop point, helpless and out of touch. Telling him there was nothing he could have done, even if he had been right at the test point, wasn't likely to provide much solace.

  The doctor waited a few moments until the first wave of sorrow had passed. "I'm afraid she never had a real chance," he then said solemnly. "Her lungs were completely involved, and ... there was irreversible spinal column damage as well, plus the burns." He hesitated, eyeing Todd Saunder. "McKelvey's in bad shape, but he's hanging on. His condition is extremely critical. We can't make any firm prognosis at this time."

  "Morgan's incredibly strong," Dr. Ives put in hastily. "That's the key. If he can resist infection for the next few crucial days, we can help him a great deal more with some of our new treatments. We've already ordered his DNA tissue samples shipped from the Cryogenic Enclave branch on Mars."

  Todd Saunder flinched, and for a split second Brenna wanted to attack the older woman. Dr. Ives meant well. But this was the wrong time to remind Todd of anything connected with the Enclave. The original Cryogenic Enclave had been a Saunder Enterprises franchise at Earth's South Pole—and Jael Saunder had used her power over thousands of stasis-frozen confinees there to murder for money and political power. The old family scandal. It never went away, not even now, when the doctors planned to use cryogenically preserved tissue to save Morgan's life.

  "Dad?" Brenna managed to attract his attention and lift him out of a private hell. "Dad, we all donated tissue specimens to the ... the cryo storage banks on Mars. For medical emergencies. They can regenerate or synthesize replacement tissue from those models. Right, Helen?"

  Dr. Ives agreed at once, attempting to put a hopeful tone into the discussion. "Right! We've really got some super methods to deal with cases like this."

  Cases like this. Morgan McKelvey, at the edge of death.

  "Skin grafts," Todd Saunder said weakly, his voice a hoarse croak.

  The medics looked at him with pity. Dr. Dybas shook his head. "No, I'm afraid that's not possible. With Tumaini Beno, we can graft and use tissue from other sources to do the trick until his own systems take over." Aluna Beno showed her first glimmerings of interest in what was being said. Patiently, Dybas explained, "McKelvey hasn't enough original tissue left. None, in fact. Interior problems, too. To be quite frank, his lungs are nearly gone. We have to duplicate his DNA patterns fast and replace lung tissue and skin with synthetic mimics. With any kind of help from the patient, we can pull him through. This is a tried and tested technique, Mr. Saunder. We've used it for decades and saved a lot of people who would otherwise have died in more primitive times. Syntha skin and syntha pleura aren't as good as the real thing, of course. There's very little incorporation of nerve endings at all, though some capillary acceptance. Well, that's medicalese. I won't bore you with it. Nothing for you to concern yourself about, sir."

  Brenna was two people again—the tough, by-the-book pilot, accepting the gamble and the risks of the game as the go-to-glory price. The rest of her felt sick.

  Morgan. Alive but trapped forever inside an artificial skin. She had seen documentaries on this lifesaving method during the first-aid courses she had taken. It was true. Burn victims did live because of this miracle invention. Live? A skin that looked as if it came from a mannequin, with touchy heat and cold sensitivity and nil tactile qualities. There would be muscle atrophy, constant danger of infection ... what else? She didn't want to know. The doctors weren't giving them the full story yet. That was merciful. Morgan's survival wasn't assured, and there was no point in being cruel, spelling out what his future would be like—until they were sure he had a future.

  "Look," Dr. Ives was saying, "there's not a lot any of you can do here right now. Your husband's under sedation, Aluna, as much as we dare give him. I don't think it's wise for you to try to see him at present. And Morgan's in a co
ma. So..."

  The liaison officer spoke up. "We've arranged quarters for everyone, in the visitors' area. If there's anything we can do to make you more comfortable, let us know." He was eager to please. It wasn't often this branch of Wyoma Lee Foix Space Hospital had the chance to host its sponsor's husband and daughter and assorted entourages.

  Brenna cleared her throat. The effort hurt. An enormous, sharp lump was stuck there—unshed tears for Rue and Morgan and Tumaini. "We ... we have to make arrangements..."

  "For Miss Polk, of course," the liaison officer said sympathetically. "Lieutenant Polk's ... uh ... final-request specs are on file with Breakthrough Unlimited." He waved at one of the aides who had accompanied Todd Saunder to the hospital. "Your man Evanow is coordinating with me. Everything will be set up the way Lieutenant Polk would have wished."

  Helen Ives's mother-henning instincts were coming to the fore. The pilots were no longer in training for a major flight, but she tried to shoo them away to the visitors' quarters for some rest. They all fended her off, refusing, and after a bit of arguing, she departed in disgust. Other hospital staffers were helping Brenna's father and Aluna Beno, nursemaiding the shocked and stricken family and friends. Brenna entrusted her father to his aides and the others and detained Evanow in the conference room. Before Aluna left, Brenna tried to express her regrets. Tumaini's wife rounded on her with a fierce glare. "I do not wish to talk to you, Saunder. To any of you!" Mrs. Beno's icy fury took in all of her husband's comrades. Then, without another word, she stalked out, letting a hospital staffer show her to the room that had been reserved for her.

  "She never was..." Hector began, then caught a warning glance from Brenna and shut up.

  Brenna beckoned to Evanow and hastily ran through some of the PR info he would need. ComLink and TeleCom and the independents would be besieging the hospital for updates. Evanow had his work cut out for him. Brenna was glad the man had plenty of experience with Breakthrough Unlimited and her father's branch of Saunder Enterprises. He was a colonist, too, so the free-fall and partial-gravity conditions aboard the hospital weren't likely to trouble him. "... and one last thing," Brenna said as Evanow was completing the entries on his mini-memory wrist terminal. "I want Charlie Dahl out of touch. Lock him on the other side of the door. Let that bastard freeze his balls off before he gets another scrap of news from any of us." Evanow looked as if he would rather enjoy that assignment. The abrasive TeleCom reporter had stepped on other toes besides Brenna's. "Feed tidbits to whoever's Charlie's worst rival at TeleCom. Got it?" Evanow nodded and left.

  Brenna wondered for a moment if her fellow pilots would think she was being vindictive. Nagata answered that. "We should do much worse to him. He caused a delay. He may have killed…

  "No," Brenna said hastily, not wanting to hear more, superstition flaring. If it's spoken, it might come true! "No, Dahl's interference wasn't critical. But he shouldn't have butted in. He's been riding too high too long, and it's time someone took him down. This will teach him a lesson."

  Nagata sought someone to blame for the disaster. "None of it should have happened. All our unmanned tests were perfect."

  Brenna was tempted to remind him that he, Joe Habich, and Adele Zyto were the "kids" of the project. They had been with Breakthrough Unlimited only for eighteen months and hadn't participated in several of those unmanned tests Shoje referred to. This wasn't the time to emphasize how green they were, though, in the project's terms. They all did have a good, solid background in commercial spaceflight. None of them was an amateur.

  "If we only knew what fouled up..."

  "The Vahnaj could tell us," Hector chimed in. "But they're not going to. Quol-Bez is a nice guy, sure, but his government? They care nothing for us humans."

  "Why should they?" Nagata responded bitterly. "They already have FTL drive."

  Hector nodded. "That's right. FTL spaceships like the Ambassador's and FTL radio to boot."

  "Lording it over us," Shoje Nagata mumbled, nursing his anger. "Laughing at us squatting here in our backyard. They will give Hiber-Ship everything it asks for, but not us."

  "Knock it off," Brenna warned.

  Guards posted outside the door and now and then a passing hospital staffer heard the loud voices in the conference room and peered in curiously. This was no place for a pilots' bullshit session! But Brenna was losing control, couldn't shut them up.

  "Somebody ought to take that Vahnaj ship and pick her guts apart..."

  "Yeah! If we'd done that before now, maybe this wouldn't have..."

  Yuri Nicholaiev tried to break in. "Durak! We do not know that yet. We do not even have all the data..."

  "What the hell do you know about it, Nicholaiev? You can always go back to Space Fleet if the going gets too rough at Breakthrough..."

  The Russian clenched his fists. Hector stepped between him and Nagata hastily, before either of them could start swinging.

  Yuri and the younger pilot glared at each other, plainly struggling to keep their tempers.

  Brenna jumped into the momentary silence. "Shut off this fuel flow right now! You're not thinking straight."

  Yuri nodded. "That is so," Hector said. "We can talk this over later, when we are calmer. There is a lot we must find out first."

  "We know the Vahnaj still can step all over us in interstellar space," Shoje retorted. "Maybe you'd like to go back to Space Fleet, too? Or better yet, sign up with Hiber-Ship and get to the stars that way..."

  "That's enough!" Brenna had to yell to make the order effective. It worked. Civilian heads turned. All the pilots finally became conscious of where they were and who was listening to them. Some semblance of discipline returned, the rebellion fading from their faces. Brenna sighed. "All right. We each have things to do. Nagata, you're in charge of refueling and refitting our ships. Arrange for someone from Breakthrough Unlimited on Mars to ferry Chase One and Two back to FTL Station. Okay? Yuri, you work with Evanow. Have him send additional PR staffers up here, if necessary. It looks as if we'll be here for a while. Dad and I will be, for sure. Evanow can handle media releases—unless someone else here wants to go on camera and be all smiles for the public?" Their glum expressions mirrored Brenna's. There were no volunteers. "Hector, you coordinate with George Li and Adele and Joe. Keep them abreast of what's happening. I'll help you as much as I can, but my dad's going to fill up a lot of my hours until further notice. Mmm, someone ought to stay with Aluna Beno, I guess..."

  Again, there were no volunteers. Tumaini's wife had raffled too many feathers among her husband's fellow pilots. Finally Hector squared his shoulders. "I'll call Carmelita. She'll come and hold Aluna's hand. Carmelita can leave the kids at the spaceport's child-care hostel." That would be rough on Carmelita Obregon. But Tumaini's wife was likely to tolerate her presence much better than she would any of her husband's crewmates. Mutual negative admiration. Aluna Beno regarded them all as maniacs who had lured her husband into a near-fatal disaster, and they regarded her as someone who never should have been a pilot's wife.

  Agreed on their assignments, they split up. Rue's death was an open wound none of them could forget. They would have to force themselves not to dwell on that, or they'd come unglued. Brenna hoped keeping busy would do the trick.

  "They'll make it," Dr. Ives said. She was standing at Brenna's side. "So will you. Come on. Log some sack time. It's going to be days before this all sorts itself out."

  Dr. Ives hadn't exaggerated. Worse, there was no routine, nothing Brenna could rely on. Time schedules and normal work procedures were totally wiped out. Everything went on standby, and they all muddled along.

  Yuri asked Brenna to check out Evanow's work. The man was an expert, but this was a delicate situation. He didn't want to consult his nominal boss, Todd Saunder, nor did Brenna want him to bother her father at this time. Evanow's releases were usually just fine, the right note of tragic courage and hope, combined with the regular medical bulletins—all of which sounded impressive and said very little. B
renna rubber-stamped the results and told the PR people to take care of it. She supposed that eventually she would have to take a greater interest in this aspect of Breakthrough Unlimited. PR was Morgan's specialty. But Morgan wouldn't be able to take that load off her shoulders for quite a while.

  Todd Saunder woke up at irregular intervals and prowled the lounge and corridors like a caged, graying tiger. He was a bit more communicative than he had been, but not by much. When his aides brought him food, he ate it. When Brenna spoke to him, he answered her, saying no more than he had to—a man rationing words. Dr. Ives didn't have any better luck. On a rare respite from her duties with the ICU team, she explained that the requested cryogenically preserved DNA samples had arrived and the hospital's labs were growing syntha skin and syntha-pleural tissue, gradually introducing these into Morgan's body. Some of the syntha skin wouldn't "take," but they hoped most of it would and then extend its coverage. The human skin was the body's largest organ, absolutely necessary for life. Since Morgan had none of his own left, replacement was his only hope. Todd Saunder listened without comment, then returned to watching his nephew on the remote monitor. That was a form of punishment, for him or for anyone else who loved Morgan.

  Brenna was little better off than her father. Sleep wouldn't come. She roamed the hospital at odd hours, usually ending up where her father had spent so much time—looking at the monitor screens. She used ComLink to try to contact Derek, but apparently he was maintaining silence, possibly to refuse his employers' irate calls.

  Hours crept by, became a full day, then two full days. Dr. Ives reported that Tumaini was making great progress. By the third day, when he was fully conscious and breathing on his own, the medics took a chance and gave him mild pain drugs. Tumaini was coping well with the anti-radiation therapy and fighting off infection. And he was beginning to bitch. That was the most favorable sign of all. His fellow pilots took turns at the visitors' screen when the doctors gave permission for short conversations with the patient. Tumaini was still in isolation, of course, but he could talk to them and see them on the two-way com. Brenna and the others traded gripes with him, joking to take his mind off his hurts. Aluna Beno made a point of not being in the room when they were. She scheduled her visits separately.