Blood and Fire

by David Gerrold

  Williger hesitated. “No, there isn’t.”

  “I’ll need risk assessment. HARLIE?”

  HARLIE’s voice was bland. “I have no referents against which to measure this situation. Risk analysis may be inaccurate, Captain.”

  “Go ahead, HARLIE.”

  “We’re looking at several specific procedures, here, all of them complementary. Each one attacks a separate part of the problem. There is sufficient overlap of functionality that whatever elements one process doesn’t address another one will. Nevertheless, as Dr. Williger has pointed out, we have no evidence of a hundred-percent effectiveness. Theoretically, I can endorse the possibility of total effectiveness—”

  “HARLIE, if I wanted someone to beat around the bush, I’d hire a lawyer.”

  “Risk assessment is useless without context, Captain. You need to understand the problem I’m having in making this analysis. With most viral or bacterial infections, the risk of disease is determined by the depth of exposure. A few strands of viral material, a few bacterial cells are not enough to infect an individual; with many diseases, the body can flush even the most toxic material if the exposure is small enough. Such may not be true with plasmacytes. A single wavicle within the bloodstream may be enough to trigger the whole process. The body has no apparent defenses. The one hope we do have is that the transitions between wavicle and particulate states are brittle; the process fails more often than it succeeds; the wavicle winks out or the particulate disintegrates. That’s the weakness in this bug. So we may not need the process to be completely effective. Total decontamination might be achievable by exploiting the plasmacyte’s own fragility.”

  “And . . .?”

  “With all the information currently at hand, I would estimate a sixtypercent chance of effectiveness. With additional safeguards, which I will discuss with Dr. Williger, it’s possible to boost that to seventy-five percent.”

  Parsons was silent. Listening to her, Korie could almost imagine the expression on her face. He spoke up then. “Captain, if HARLIE’s numbers are accurate, there’s one chance in four—per patient—that you’ll infect the Star Wolf. That’s too big a risk. There’s twenty of us over here. Infection of the Wolf is inevitable.”

  “If you’re talking about random happenstance,” Parsons replied, “then yes, infection of the Wolf is inevitable. But we’re not talking about chance occurrences here. We’re talking about the intention and commitment of human beings with something at stake.”

  “With all due respect, Captain—”

  “With all due respect, Commander Korie—let me ask you something. You’re an expert on hyperstate engines, are you not?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is hyperstate injection a zero-defect process?”

  “If by that, you mean the process is intolerant of error, yes it is a zero-defect process.”

  “But we use hyperstate anyway?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We surround the process with enough fail-safes, backups, triple-checks and calibrators that the statistical possibility of initiating a hyperstate envelope in an error-state is somewhere south of null.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “We bag the whole process—we put it in a contextual clean room.”

  “My point exactly, Mr. Korie. What we’re dealing with here is just another zero-defect, error-intolerant process. We will put it in a bag of security measures as tight as those surrounding a hyperstate injection.”

  “It sounds good in theory, ma’am—”

  “HARLIE?”

  “I have no referents on which to base an analysis.”

  “Dr. Williger, set it up. HARLIE, I’ll want go/no-go points for every step of the procedure.”

  Korie heard Brik’s voice then—“Is that your decision, Captain? That we will attempt a rescue?”

  “Yes, Commander Brik, that is my decision.”

  A pause. A whole conversation of silence. Captain Parsons was effectively ending her career. No matter what the outcome here, even if the rescue were successful, even if the information brought back was sufficient to end the threat of bloodworms forever, she would still be guilty of violating a standing order and putting her crew at risk. Her court-martial was inevitable. The only question was, how many of her officers would be tried for complicity as well.

  “Is there a problem, Commander Brik?”

  “No, ma’am. What are your orders?”

  Process

  “If we inhibit the particulate form’s ability to bind, we cut off its energy supply so it can’t maintain itself,” Williger explained enthusiastically. “If we do it in a suppressive resonance field, then the plasmacytes are held in a chaotic domain below the threshold of their wavicle state—which means we can scan for plasmacytes within the body without giving them the quantum kick into transformation. They’ll try, but they won’t be able to. They won’t be able to hold either state. They’ll fragment almost instantly. Thirty seconds. A minute.”

  Parsons looked at the schematic of the operation with a skeptical expression. “It sounds risky.”

  “We’ll get toxic residue, yes. We’ll have to push the patient through a series of concentric repulsor valves into a clean-room environment—I can do that in the Forward Airlock Reception Bay—and that’ll give us three minutes for a full blood replacement.”

  “It sounds risky ...” Parsons said again, hoping that this time the doctor would hear the concern in her voice.

  But Williger was too enthralled. “We have to break the cycle between the particulate and the wavicle forms to disinfect a body. Once we do that, we can destroy both forms. The real problem is the immediate reinfection of the patient. They were using artificial blood on the Norway , which solved half the problem, but they didn’t have a clean-room environment to move the processed patients into. And they didn’t have a method to disinfect either.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Doctor. I said, ‘it sounds risky.’ It sounds very risky.”

  “Yes, Captain. I heard you. It is risky. And time is critical every step of the way. We’d have less than three minutes to make the transfusion—or we start damaging the patient—but it’s doable. I’ve got my people drilling now. The Quillas. The Black Hole Gang. Brian Armstrong. We’ve been working with simulator dummies ...”

  Captain Parsons turned to Dr. Williger and lowered her voice. “Is this a zero-defect process, Molly?”

  “Don’t ask me, Captain. Ask HARLIE. He designed the process with multiple redundancies.”

  Parsons nodded. “All right. Get your team into position, ready to go. But Doctor—I’m still not convinced. This isn’t an authorization yet.”

  Williger acknowledged with a nod, then turned away to speak quietly into her headset.

  Parsons pulled her own headset back on. “Mr. Korie?”

  “Korie here.”

  “Have you examined Dr. Williger’s proposal?”

  “We’re going over it now, Captain.”

  “Do you see any problems with it on your end.”

  “No, Captain, I don’t. Physically, we can manage the process.” He added, “But my original concerns still remain. Despite HARLIE’s assurances, I don’t believe this is a zero-defect process.”

  “Your back itches?”

  “My bloodstream itches, Captain—”

  “You’d rather die than take this chance?”

  “I’d rather die than be responsible for the deaths of any more crew, Captain.”

  “An honorable position, Commander Korie. But as I’ve already climbed way out on this limb, I think you should climb out here with me. It’s an interesting view.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful, ma’am, but as I said—I disagree with this decision. I strongly disagree.”

  “So noted. Overruled.”

  “Captain, with all due respect, I believe I should refuse to follow your orders.”

  “And if you do, I’ll have you court-martialed on a charge of mutiny. Posthumously, of course.�
�

  “That’s not exactly a compelling threat, you know.”

  Parsons hesitated. “I know your record, Mr. Korie. I know what happens when captains disagree with you.” She said that last with a slight grin. “Tell me, have you ever been wrong?”

  “Yes, Captain Parsons—I have been wrong. I’ve been wrong about almost everything on this particular mission so far. And it cost us the death of Mikhail Hodel. I would very much like to be wrong again, Captain. I really do not want to be right on this one. It’s just too dangerous.”

  “Well, y’know, Jon. You could be on a streak. If you’ve already been wrong about everything else, then the odds are that you’re wrong about this one too.”

  “Captain, it’s too dangerous. You can’t take the risk.”

  “Well ...” Parsons said with finality. “It just so happens that I have an itch of my own. And my itch doesn’t agree with your itch. And because I’m the captain, we’ll go with my itch, not yours. That’s an order.”

  “Just one question, ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is Mr. Brik’s position?”

  Brik answered for himself. “The same as yours. It’s a damn fool idea. And we’re probably not going to survive. But I have sworn an oath to follow the orders of my captain. And so have you. So stop wasting our time and get on with the job.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brik.” Korie nodded to himself; he would have expected nothing less from the Morthan officer. He took a breath. All right, he’d done his duty. “Captain Parsons, I’ll ready the mission team.” But as Korie turned to Bach, he found Jarell and Blintze standing at his elbow. They were holding a starsuit helmet up between them—they’d been listening to the entire conversation.

  Now, Jarell spoke, “Captain? Captain Parsons?”

  The Captain’s voice came back, filtered through the communicator. “Go ahead, Mr. Jarell.”

  “Captain, you’ll have to rescue Blintze and myself first.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Jarell was unembarrassed. “There’s a Fleet Regulation. Order Number 238—”

  “I know the order.”

  “Then you know that it mandates that in situations of dire emergency, critically important Fleet personnel must be rescued first.”

  Bach snorted in contempt. “Right. ‘Women and children last.’”

  Jarell barely glanced at her. “You said something, Lieutenant?”

  Korie interrupted both of them. To Parsons, he said, “Captain, there are people here in very bad shape.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Korie. Commander Jarell has precedent on his side. Whatever he and Blintze know about the plasmacytes is too important to risk losing.”

  “Yes, Captain.” He kept his tone noncommittal; Captain Parsons would recognize the implied disapproval.

  On the Bridge of the Star Wolf, Parsons looked at the forward display, studied the images of Jarell and Blintze there. She said softly, “I understand exactly how you feel, Mr. Korie.” She pulled her headset off and turned to her left. “Dr. Williger—” She looked around abruptly. “Where’s Williger?”

  “She’s at the forward airlock,” said Brik.

  “Commander Tor, you have the conn. Brik, come with me.” And she disappeared down through the access to the Fire Control Bay and the keel.

  Forward Airlock Reception Bay

  Parson strode forward angrily, followed by Brik, who actually had trouble keeping up with her. Parts of the corridor were less than three meters high and he had to crouch low to get through.

  They stepped through a series of sealed hatches and arrived at the Forward Airlock Reception Bay—identified by large block letters on the bulkhead as FARB—to find Williger readying a crash cart and a makeshift Med Bay. She was wearing a starsuit—all she needed was the helmet. She had two robot-gurneys collapsed and ready; all their sidebar equipment was blinking green. Several Quillas stood by, either preparing equipment or testing it—or putting on starsuits of their own.

  Chief Engineer Leen and the Black Hole Gang were installing a set of field-lenses throughout the length of the reception bay and the airlock. The Martian arrived from somewhere aft, rolling a rack of plastic bottles containing artificial blood; he was a small, ugly creature of indeterminate description, but he was thorough. He pushed the rack into place beside an ominous-looking operating table and then disappeared aft again.

  Williger was everywhere, bustling from one station to the next, loading equipment and supplies onto the gurneys, directing others to do the same. “HARLIE? I need this gurney programmed now.”

  “Both gurneys have been programmed, Dr. Williger,” HARLIE said quietly. “But I cannot activate the programs without Captain Parsons’ authorization.”

  Williger started to swear; turning around she bumped into the captain. “Oh, good—you’re here. Tell HARLIE to let go of the damn gurneys.”

  “Dr. Williger—”

  “You said get ready. I’m getting.”

  “I haven’t made my decision yet—”

  “Well, you’d better make it soon. We’re running out of time.”

  “I won’t be stampeded, Molly—” Parsons grabbed the doctor by the arm and pulled her physically backward, back into the keel, and into an access leading to the ship’s farm; Brik followed at a distance, primarily to keep anyone else from approaching the two. “Listen to me. I know how you ended up on this ship, I know why. I know where you should have been sent instead. It took some digging, but I found out. If you’re trying to redeem yourself—or if you’re going after a Heinlein Prize here—”

  “Is that what you think this is about?” Williger shot back. “Awards? Redemption?”

  “You’re in a starsuit, Doctor. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “Captain, we have a better understanding of this problem than we’ve ever had before. Sooner or later, someone is going to have to take this chance. If not here, where? If not now, when?”

  “And what if you’re wrong?”

  “What if I’m right?”

  “I’m not convinced that we can do this safely—neither is Mr. Korie.”

  “He talked you out of it?”

  “He expressed concerns—”

  Williger nodded. “We all agreed that we would put a security bag around the entire operation. You’ve seen the preparations. HARLIE will be monitoring every step of every procedure. What do you think we’re missing? What else do you want us to do? Paint ourselves blue? Chant a prayer to Saint Mortimer? Stand on one foot? Captain, don’t do this. Don’t dither. There comes a moment when you have to make a decision—and you and I both know that you’ve already made this decision.”

  Before Parsons could answer, the entire starship began to vibrate; a note like one struck from a gigantic gong resonated through the polycarbonate hull of the vessel, it sang through their bones—and straight through their souls. Even as they paused, a deeper sound added itself, and then a darker, deeper note underneath the first two. Like the floor of the universe rumbling. It was the combined throbbing of multiple repulsor fields, a heterodyning pressure.

  From somewhere ahead came Leen’s ecstatic shout, “Gotcha!” And then, “The fields are up, Doctor. You can proceed any time.”

  Parsons turned back to Williger. “Listen to me, Doctor—up until this moment, it was all a ... a drill. A dry run. An exercise. A thought experiment. But the minute that we bring one of those gurneys back aboard this ship with a patient on it, it’s no longer pretend. We’re committed. Up until this moment, I’ve always had the option of backing out. And I’ve held onto that possibility as desperately as a life-preserver. Because the minute I give the order to go ahead, I’ll be ordering something that no other ship has ever survived. So I don’t care how tight a bag you’ve put this operation in, Doctor. I have to look at this situation from more than one perspective. It’s not just about saving Korie and the mission team; it’s about saving everyone onboard this ship too. And if that’s dithering, then so be i
t.”

  She stepped out of the access and back into the keel, only to come face-to-face with Chief Engineer Leen. He was carrying several rolls of optical cable and field arrays. He nodded courteously. “Everything is working. In addition to the repulsor fields already installed in the transfer tube, we’ve got four more repulsor valves in the airlock. That gives us seven concentric barriers. Once we begin processing, we’re going to be opening and closing a lot of hatches in a hurry, so we’re going to be totally dependent on the fields. You’ve got two hours of power and some change, maybe three max. Dr. Williger says she can do the job in that time, but you don’t have a lot of margin for error.”

  Standing behind Parsons, Williger said, “It’ll take less than a minute to neutralize the plasmacytes in each person’s blood, but we’ll give them ninety seconds to be sure. As soon as the scan comes up green, the gurney will come back through the transfer tube and we’ll connect the patient up for a high-speed blood replacement.”

  Parsons ignored the chief medical officer’s lobbying. “Chief? What’s your confidence on those fields?”

  “Each valve will stop ninety-nine percent of the wavicles that hit it. Seven phased fields should give us a practical barrier. But ...”

  “But?”

  “But ... it’s still theoretically possible that if a sufficient mass of wavicles were to assault the first valve, a few might make it all the way through to the last one. That’s what HARLIE says.”

  “One would be enough, wouldn’t it?” She looked to Williger.

  “Theoretically, there would have to be 100 quadrillion wavicles hitting the first repulsor field for one to get through the last repulsor field.”

  “Yes,” said Parsons. “Theoretically. There’s that word again.”

  “Theoretically ... yes. But I doubt there are 100 quadrillion wavicles on the Norway. HARLIE estimates maybe fifty quadrillion at most. They’re flickering in and out of existence.”

  “Fifty quadrillion ...” Parsons considered it. “That means half a wavicle could get through.”