To Honor You Call Us

by Harvey G. Phillips

  “And was your hand anywhere near one of the compression phase regulator feedback streams recently?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “But, I thought there were safety procedures to be sure that the stream never touched human tissue.”

  “There are. But, well, Doc, it’s like this. Every now and then, we need to swap out one of the regulator buffers that the stream flows around. It’s just this little cadmium-praseodymium-ytterbium rod with a liquid boron core that plugs into a socket in the stream conduit. You open the conduit, pull the old rod, and insert the new one. We don’t shut down the drive when we do that. Since there are ten streams, we run the other nine at a hundred and eleven point two percent and shut down the one we need to do the buffer swap out on. It’s OK, since the system lets us shut the stream down for up to eight seconds at a time and the book says they can be run at up to a hundred and thirty percent for up to a minute. So, we shut it down, open the door, pull the old rod, stick the new one in, close the door, and restart the stream. Simple.”

  “But, you were a little slow pulling your arm out as the stream restarted and it caught your hand as it was just beginning to power up.”

  “Hey, you got it pegged, Doc. That’s exactly what happened.”

  “When did this happen.”

  “About eight hours ago.”

  The doctor regarded him severely. “Spacer, you know that regulations specifically require that you report immediately to the Casualty Station upon any exposure of that kind. Why did you not report?”

  “I didn’t think it was all that serious.” There was something evasive about the answer.

  “Were you the senior person performing this operation?”

  “No, sir. That was Petty Officer Third Starcevik.”

  “Then, it was his responsibility to make sure that the injury was reported promptly. I will deal with the Petty Officer later.” He made a note on his padcomp. Starcevik would soon be hearing from the Cumberland’s Chief Medical Officer in a manner that would get his attention; the safety of the crew was paramount and superiors were strictly responsible for the safety of those under their command. “Was Starcevik aware of the incident?”

  This question apparently required considerable thought. “Yea, he was standing right there and he asked me if I was OK.”

  “I see.” The doctor walked away from the man to the corner of the examining room, as though in thought, while slipping his pen light out of his pocket. Without warning, he turned and tossed the light to Spacer Rhim. “Here, catch.”

  The light hit the spacer squarely in the center of his chest and fell to the examining table before the man so much as flinched.

  “Spacer, look me in the eyes and tell me how long you have been a tranker.”

  Rhim gazed back at him in apparent shock and horror at the accusation. “Bones, I don’t use that stuff. You know it’s against regulations to even have it on the ship.”

  Sahin actually smiled. “Now, Rhim, that line may work on some worn out, second rate, gone to space because he can’t make it in a modern clinic doctor, but it doesn’t fill the water skins with me. I can spot it a mile away. Your movements are slow, your answers to questions were slow, your reflexes are slow, and you hardly ever blink your eyes. Most Spacers are nervous in the presence of the Chief Medical Officer but you have not even so much as fidgeted or twitched. Your pupils are dilated and unreactive, your facial capillaries are dilated, and there is a characteristic pigmentation change in the oral and nasal mucosa. To trained eyes, you might as well have painted a sign on your forehead. Now, I know that most of the drugs used by men on a warship do not show up very well in ordinary blood tests. But they can be tested for very easily from a sample of cerebrospinal fluid. Spacer, are you going to tell me what you are taking, or do I need to perform a spinal tap?”

  “Spinal tap?”

  “Oh, yes, a spinal tap,” the doctor responded cheerily. “More properly called a lumbar puncture. Very simple, really. I take a one hundred and twenty-five millimeter needle and insert it directly into your spinal column right between your L3 and L4 vertebrae,” Doctor Sahin jabbed him with his index finger roughly in the middle of his back, “and slowly push through the tissue until I feel a slight ‘give’,” he gave the finger a slight shove, “which tells me that the needle has penetrated the ligmentum flavium. Then I continue to push the needle deeper into your spine until it ‘gives’ once more,” another shove, “telling me that I am through the dura mater and . . . I see signs of alarm on your face, Rhim. Truly, the needle is not all that long, only as long as your hand is wide, there are many larger that we commonly use, so put that concern aside. In any event once the one hundred and twenty-five millimeter needle is inside your spinal column very near your spinal cord I very carefully withdraw some cerebrospinal fluid for testing. Of course, if I penetrate too deeply, the needle could puncture your spinal cord and paralyze you for life, but there is only a very slight risk of permanent paralysis resulting from the procedure. Don’t worry. I am quite the old hand at jabbing long needles into people’s spinal columns. I’ll be right back with a nurse and a spinal tray.” He started for the door.

  “No, Doc. Wait,” the Spacer pleaded. “You don’t need to do that lumbar tapping puncture spinal thing. I admit it. I’ve been tranking. But only when I’m going off duty.”

  “Thank you. And what, exactly, are you using?”

  “The Chill.”

  Of course. It had to be the Chill. The Chill was the “street name” for a prescription medication known as Atanipine used to treat cases of extreme anxiety disorder. When a patient was so severely anxious that he could not even speak about his problem to a therapist, this drug was a Godsend, virtually eliminating the anxiety so that the patient could talk about his issues without going into an anxiety attack. It was generally administered only a few hours before a therapy session, and even then only for a period of a few months because, as the treatment went on, the drug was known to slow reflexes and mental responses long after its anti-anxiety effects wore off. It could be synthesized by any but the most basic MediMax units once the authorization protocols were disabled.

  “Rhim, just sit right there for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re not going to get . . . .”

  “No, I’m not going to get the spinal kit. I’m going to get a piece of diagnostic equipment.” In less than three minutes, the doctor returned with a device that looked like a black gauntlet with mitten fingers and two thumbs (one on each side) plus a small numerical readout on the forearm. “This is a Neural Transmission Analyzer. Simple device, really. It stimulates the fingertips and then measures the timing and the intensity of the neural response as it travels up the nerves through the upper forearm. It tells how efficiently the nerves are transmitting their impulses and how rapidly they are doing so. We have a more sophisticated test that involves putting a measuring device on your head and stimulating several different parts of your body, but this is accurate enough for our purposes today. Just put your arm in here, no the other one. I do not want to use the hand that you injured. There. Now, you will not feel anything except a bit of a tickle, then a vibration, then a gentle poke or two, all on your fingertips. Nothing terribly unpleasant.”

  Rhim inserted his right hand and the doctor activated the device. It was just as promised. First he felt a light brush across his fingertips, almost like a feather, then a slight vibration of each finger in turn, and then pokes by a sharp but not penetrating object, much like a somewhat blunted pencil point, in several points on the tips of each finger. The stimulation then stopped and a green light came on at one corner of the readout unit. The doctor removed the device and pressed a button. Two numbers appeared: 7.1 and 6.5.

  “Doctor, what do those numbers mean?”

  “The first number is the speed of your neural transmission. It is an index calibrated for each patient’s gender, age, and other factors—I input the calibration data before I stepped in. Ten is normal.
The second is a similar index for the sensitivity, accuracy, and precision with which your nerves respond to the impulses. Again, ten is the calibrated norm. Your responses, I am sorry to say, are significantly below normal in on both indices. How long have you been using this substance? Please be honest with me. I already have a good idea from the degree of neural impairment.”

  “More than a year. Let me see, thirteen and a half months, I think.”

  “That is not surprising. How much do you take?

  “I usually take a pointer when I get off duty. When I have a day off, I take a deuce.”

  “A pointer is one and a deuce is two milligrams?”

  “Yea, that’s right.”

  “At least you’re not a heavy user, although the drug has still taken a substantial toll on you. Now, young man, again I need you to give me a perfectly and completely honest answer to my next question. It is my job to treat this problem and see you returned to full health and, in order to do that, I must have accurate information. My job is to cure, not judge.” The Spacer nodded his understanding. “If you do not use for a day or two, do you experience any symptoms, such as nervousness, anxiety, loss of appetite, inability to sleep, or muscle twitches, particularly around the eyes and corners of the mouth?”

  “Uh huh. All of those. I get real edgy like. Can’t sit still. Ants in my pants.”

  “How about feelings of persecution, the sense that people are out to get you, or that everyone is against you or doesn’t like you?”

  “Nah, none of that stuff. What’s that mean, anyway?”

  “What that means is that you are addicted to this pernicious substance, but not severely so. Once you stop using, you will go through an uncomfortable period of withdrawal where you will experience the symptoms we just talked about, and perhaps some moderate nausea, all for a few days, and then you will be fine.”

  “You said ‘once you stop using.’ Does that mean—?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, a thousand times yes. It most assuredly means that you are going to stop using, young man. There is no doubt about that. You and everyone else on board this ship. No one is going to deaden their dendrites and blunt their brains on the U.S.S. Cumberland. Not while I am her Chief Medical Officer.” The doctor realized that his voice had gotten inappropriately loud for the small room. He continued more softly. “But, I almost forgot. With all the discussion of this other issue, I have let your original injury slip my mind. I’ll be right back.” He shortly returned with a loaded pressure syringe and administered its contents. Navy doctors don’t ask first, especially with Enlisted Men. Any prescription or treatment is essentially an order from a superior officer, so they administer the shot or lance the boil or otherwise go ahead with what they need to do. Explanations, if offered at all, come later.

  “The energy stream in the compression drive triggered a degenerative process in the nerves in your hand. Left untreated, the nerves would essentially have died rendering the hand useless. This medication, known as Synaptoflex, will reverse the process and allow the damage to heal. And, incidentally, it will also speed the rate at which your nerves recover from the Chill you have been taking. Starting tomorrow morning, I am going to begin working with you to address why you have been taking this terrible drug and how you can prevent yourself from taking it again. I will do everything within my power to see that you and this dangerous chemical are not mated for the rest of your life. Until then, however, I have an unpleasant duty to perform.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I am required by regulations to relieve you until further notice. You are simply too impaired to function properly. As this demonstrates,” he pointed to Rhim’s injured right hand, “you are a hazard in your present condition, both to yourself and others. You will receive appropriate bureaucratic paperwork shortly explaining that you retain your current rate of pay unless it is modified or stopped due to a separate disciplinary action by proper authority, as well as your right to an appeal hearing before a panel of enlisted men, or to have your case reviewed at a Captain’s Mast, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, within a day or two.” At that moment there was a knock on the examination room door. The doctor opened it to admit two rifle-carrying Marines and Major Kraft.

  The doctor said sadly, “I’m afraid I called them a moment ago, when I was out of the room. The regulations are quite specific on that point.”

  Major Kraft announced, “Spacer Rhim, you are under arrest for consumption of a prohibited substance. After I read the doctor’s report, there will likely be other charges, too, but that one will do for now. I need you to come with us.” Turning to one of the Marines, “Carlsson, go to the Quartermaster and draw a Plain Jane for him. We can’t have this man sitting in the Brig in his underwear.” The Marines led him from the room. Common sense, not to mention a specific naval regulation, said that one did not put a man in the Brig in an SCU, with its oxygen generator full of volatile chemicals and various metal hooks, straps, fittings, and other hardware just asking to be used for mischief by a prisoner. So, Rhim was issued a Plane Jane, which was a standard ship’s working uniform but without any insignia, patches, or other markers of naval rank, occupation, and service history. A Navy man in a Plain Jane was clothed, but visually stripped of his identity.

  Sahin picked up Rhim’s SCU and carried it to a bin for patient clothing that, for one reason or another, was left in the Casualty Station. Then he strode to his work station, called up the text message utility, selected “Send Internally” and, when given a list of recipients, clicked on “Commanding Officer.” He typed: “Need to see you as soon as possible regarding matter of great urgency.” He pressed the “SEND” key.

  ***

  Less than five minutes later, the doctor was in Max’s Day Cabin. When a senior officer said “matter of great urgency,” Max took him at his word and acted accordingly. When Max found out what the problem was, he buzzed Garcia, Kraft, and “Werner” Brown, telling them to meet him and Doctor Sahin in the Wardroom. Seventeen minutes had elapsed since the CMO sent the text message when a steward, having brought coffee to everyone except the doctor who was “in the mood for tea today,” bowed out of the Wardroom and closed the hatch. The meeting came to order.

  The doctor briefly explained what he knew and the effects of the Chill.

  “That explains a lot,” said Max.

  “Explains what?” asked Brown.

  “This crew’s performance,” Garcia finished Max’s thought. The XO was on the same wavelength as the CO, which seemed to be his default setting. “Lots of things are just plain slow, slower than they should be, even given all the other problems on this ship. The performance against the enemy when Captain Oscar was in command, the performance in the fleet exercises, the performance in the training exercises I’ve been running since the change of command. I was wondering just a few minutes ago if something like a third of the crew—excepting the officers and the NCOs—was ill or had some sort of mental disorder. Now, I’m betting we’ve got a significant fraction, not most but a significant minority, on this drug. Or others. And at least a few of the NCOs and maybe an Officer or two, unless I miss my guess.”

  “A third would be about right,” Kraft chimed in. “I was about twelve hours away from coming forward with a program of random neural testing or quarters searches or something. There’s not a doubt in my mind that a lot of these men are on something. A blind man could see it. I watch the Discrepancy Reports from every department, and there are just too many minor errors being made all over the ship, even for a ship in a low state of training. Plus, I can see it in the crew’s eyes and their movements. But, what I don’t get is why so many? In training for this post, I learned that most ships have some kind of issue with drugs, but usually it is only a small percentage of the crew. A manageable number. I’ve never heard of anything this so widespread.”

  “I have.” Max said. “You get it on an unhappy ship. If things are going well, you never have more than two or three percent using, if t
hat many. But, if you have a bastard skipper and the ship isn’t performing well and men don’t have pride in her, if she’s picked up an insulting nickname like ‘The Pitiful Pittman’ or ‘The Cumberland Gap,’ you can get as many as half of the men taking something to get them through it. Having a happy ship, a ship where the men know their duty, a ship that performs well and has a creditable record against the enemy, those things are the long term cure for this.”

  Accustomed to being dismissed by his seniors, the doctor was openly surprised that his observations were immediately being taken so seriously by the other officers. “Thank you all for being so ready to act to resolve this problem. I can identify who is using with comprehensive neural testing. The neural performance—”

  Major Kraft’s percom beeped, halting the doctor in mid-sentence.

  “Major,” Max said, annoyed. “Decorum dictates that an officer mutes his percom when meeting with other senior officers, particularly when one of them is the CO.”

  “I understand that very well, sir, but begging the Captain’s pardon, I assigned this sender a tag that would let the call come through. I believe it to be urgently relevant.” He flipped the cover open to reveal the main screen. He read for less than a minute and then nodded. “When arresting a man for any drug offense, SOP is to conduct a thorough search of his quarters and all other areas under his control. The search of Rhim’s quarters turned up seventeen very small blue tablets that were not in a standard Navy prescription container as required by regulations. We brought them to be analyzed by Pharmacist’s Mate Nguyen. The results are on Data Channel 208, classified for access only by the people in this room. The tablets are clearly Atanipine. I am betting Doctor Sahin here can tell us more than that from the analysis.”

  The doctor had already gotten up from the small meeting table and helped himself without permission to the Captain’s data station. He studied the screen for a few minutes, scrolling up and down, occasionally nodding to himself or quietly saying “ahh” and “hmmm.” Then he turned to the others. “This sample was synthesized in a MediMax Mark XIV. All MediMax machines insert a microscopic marker chip, called an Auster dot, in every pill or capsule. The Auster dot is stamped with the make, model, and serial number of the machine, the name of the medication, the dosage, and the date the drug was made. And, do not worry, it is quite harmless and digestively inert—it passes through the alimentary tract and is eliminated in the feces. Very useful, by the way, as a simple fecal sample tells us what medication the patient is taking. So, unless the marker routines have been tampered with, and this is very, very difficult, not to mention unlikely—otherwise, why would the Auster dot be there—the time stamp shows that the tablets were made only yesterday. As we have been in deep space all that time, it is clear that someone has a MediMax on board and has gone into the recreational pharmaceuticals business.”