Hospital Ship (The Rim Confederacy #5)

by Jim Rudnick

  She squirmed. She shook her head negatively and then choked back an answer. And then another. Finally, she looked up at him from her spot halfway down the long table.

  "Doctor Mendoza, it was not our fault. Yes, we did lose more patients, and yes, it was again larger numbers than we would ever want. But simply, our radiologists had their hands tied in the specific area of the liver disease, Doctor. As you know, our PET scanning, also a nuclear medicine procedure, deals with positrons. The positrons annihilate to produce two opposite traveling gamma rays to be detected coincidentally, thus improving resolution. In our PET scanning protocols in the past month, a radioactive, biologically active substance went undetected within the media. It made the fusion with our anatomic CT scans to be inaccurate, and we missed our PET findings and hence our diagnostic accuracy was compromised."

  She shrugged.

  "And we lost five patients with liver disease—hepatitis all of them—and yes, we are aware, and we are in the process of identifying that substance and finding out where it came from, Doctor. Until then, we are at a standstill as we await new tracers."

  She had a look on her face that if she said it, she'd lose her job, Maddie thought. She was upset, and if she had a reason to want to say more, she swallowed it.

  Doctor Mendoza glared at her and then finally nodded in the silent room.

  "First I've heard about any contamination, but fine. Maddie, I want the Purchasing Department head in my office soon as this meeting is over. I want the whole Radiology records for hep on my console at the same time. And lastly, I want those numbers to disappear, Doctor," he said and then nodded once more.

  "Next section—Endoscopy, please" and the meeting went on.

  ####

  "Captain, I knew I'd find you here," Lieutenant Irving said with a grin on her pretty face.

  Today she was wearing the simple work blues of a navy lieutenant and had an extra button undone on her uniform top.

  Tanner stared at her cleavage for a moment and then grinned at her.

  "Lieutenant, yes, I suspect that after being here for a month and a bit, that one can always find me pretty easily. But why is it that you're looking for me?" he said.

  He took another big slurp from his smoothie as he sat in the huge lobby rotunda of the Hospital Ship. He'd sit here for at least a couple of hours every day, watching the parade of patients and visitors and healthcare workers as they glided by on the walkway. Some, of course, walked while others were in wheelchairs and were propelled by family or friends. Busy, busy, busy, he always said, and he looked up at his lieutenant.

  "Captain, if it's okay, could I take you for lunch, and could we catch up? So much is new—and I feel like I want you to know, too," she said and her voice was almost plaintive, he noted.

  "Absolutely but only on the condition that I get the bill—agreed? Let's call it a captain's prerogative," he said as he smiled back at her.

  She cocked her head to one side and then nodded. "Okay, then about noon up at the CPR Cafe—will that be okay?"

  "Agreed. See you then."

  As she walked away, Tanner had the distinct impression that she had lots of news. An hour and a half later, he was proved correct.

  They'd started with appetizers, and he smiled and shook his head no when asked if he'd like a cocktail. Instead, he had a Virgin Caesar and smiled as he asked for it extra spicy. Most folks thought this would mean more Tabasco, but he knew—as he hoped the bartender knew—that what he really wanted was extra Worcestershire sauce. The lieutenant had a nice glass of the house Pinot Grigio, and his Caesar was dark brown instead of the red that most Caesars were, and he knew he liked this bartender. Too bad, I'm no longer trying to be a drinker, he thought and smiled as the spiciness of the drink settled in.

  "Now, Lieutenant Irving—Nancy if I may, what is so new that you came to find me? New and important—not your ears, right?" he asked suddenly aware she may be having some health issues.

  She leaned forward and patted the back of his hand. "Oh gosh, no, Captain. Not my ears at all—it's that I'm in love!" she said and those green eyes of hers flashed as she broke into a long story.

  She'd met a nice young man right here at the Hospital Ship named Nathan Ward, and he was a Barony scientist who worked here in the "secret lab" that no one knew about. She had no idea as to what it was he worked on, other than he appeared to be in charge of the Animal Testing lab—whatever that was, she claimed. They now virtually lived together after being a couple for almost six weeks, and she was head-over-heels in love she said. He was tall and fair and yet still had all his hair. Tanner wondered at that comment, but then he thought that yes, most scientists pulled it out as they were unsuccessful in their work. They were already planning their future and yes, they intended to marry one day soon too.

  That made him think for a minute about his own lack of a life partner, and he realized that down the road he'd be feeling sorry for himself. In less than another minute, he twisted out of that trap, and only then, he noticed a hand had crept down his leg to sit above his knee and his fingers were doing the one-two-one tapping. Works, he thought and then noticed the lieutenant was looking at him as if she had asked a question. And he missed it.

  "Sorry, Lieutenant—I ..." He shook his head.

  She nodded and her smile was still there too. "What I said, Captain, was enough about me—what about you?"

  Before he could answer, a couple of servers arrived with their lunches, and it took a moment to arrange the fajitas, tacos, and burritos. A big lunch indeed ...

  Gathering some guacamole into one of his tacos, he nodded at her and then smiled.

  "It appears that we're both getting by nicely," he said, "and that is really a good thing. I have been told that I'm doing fine in therapy; that my group is nicely progressing; and that in the grand scheme of things, I think I'm going to be okay. That, and yes, I want the captaincy of the Atlas back for sure. That I know for sure!"

  He gulped the last piece of the taco and washed it all down with a big slug of his Caesar.

  He changed the subject as something jutted into his consciousness.

  "Lieutenant, your scientist fellow—did you say he's in the Animal Testing lab?" he asked.

  She nodded. "As far as I know, he says he starts a new batch of some kind of vaccine test weekly, then has to kill all the Garnuthian mice at the end of the week, rack by rack, he says. I know that scientists don't much care about their test animals, but I think that's plain stupid. But that's the only thing about my Nathan that is a bit of an issue. But that's science I guess ..." she said and Tanner nodded in agreement.

  After the Mexican lunch feast, they shared a crème brûlée served with two spoons, and they nodded to each other over story after story about Atlas crew. They finished off laughing about some of the marines and how they all snapped to attention all the time.

  Guess we're bonding is what this is, Tanner thought and smiled often that day.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As he sat in the psychiatrist's office, this homage to bland, he really had nothing on his mind.

  Except, he thought as he made a list, the thing about me and a sidearm, me and my love of Black Scotch, me and how I feel about killing those hundreds of Navy crewman years back in the Earldom of Kinross, me and what I did on Halberd and killing a woman that I had feelings for, and then there was the whole OneTon bar-room brawl. Or what someone told him about that night. He shook his head.

  Nothing to worry about at all, he thought and he watched as Dr. Etter continued to read from his tablet and made some notes.

  Waiting is always fun. Not as much fun as counting your shortcomings—but still better than being in jail.

  Least so far, he thought and waited patiently for his doctor to notice him.

  Beige walls, no art to look at, except the framed diploma over there from Ishtar, the doctor had said—where the weapons were so plentiful they exported them all over the RIM. Wasn't that crazy he was thinking when the doctor looked up
at him.

  "Captain Scott, I see you're here, in person and a full five minutes early. Thank you for being so prompt, Captain," he said.

  His voice is maybe just a teensy bit sarcastic, Tanner though.

  "Nice to be here, Doctor. Been here on the Hospital Ship for what like almost a full month now. And waiting to prove to you—to all of you—that I'm sane. Honest, Doctor," he said and smiled. No sense in missing a chance, he figured.

  "I see that, yes, you've been here a month, and so far, so good," his psychiatrist said.

  Tanner nodded. That was true.

  "And so, after all those tests, after the nuclear MRIs et al.—we have some news for you. You are an alcoholic, Captain Scott. Plain and simple," he said and looked sad.

  But again, it is true.

  "I suppose my answer is supposed to be able to tell me something I do not know," Tanner said as he crossed his arms at the news.

  Dr. Etter smiled at him and then pointed at his face.

  "But after all those tests, here's what we also know, Captain. That your liver is healthy; a little enlarged, a little less than peak in efficiency, but on the whole, in great shape. This is very important to you too, as the cure as they say is right around the corner—well, down on Deck B-18, the outpatient clinic on our Psych Ward. You've an appointment there in about forty minutes for a single vaccination. And that's the alcoholism gone."

  Tanner stared at his doctor and then a moment later, chuckled.

  "You had me going there for a moment, Doc," he said and the chuckle continued as he uncrossed his arms and was about to really laugh right out loud when his doctor held up his hand to stop him.

  "I'm the science guy here, and you pilot star ships, but here's the story in a nutshell, Captain. Testing over the past month has shown that like about nineteen percent of the rest of the galaxy's population, you have a certain variant of the opioid receptor gene OPRM1, which means that this new vaccine, which is a very aggressive opioid receptor modulator, which exhibits antagonist activity at the mu and delta opioid receptors. What that means is that once the vaccine is administered and then it gets into your system, you will suffer a reduction of any enjoyment of alcohol consumption without physical withdrawal symptoms. Cure? Yes, I'd say that this vaccine, C20H23NO4 is your formula, will work first time. You may suffer, however, from the standard side effects of non-specific gastrointestinal complaints such as diarrhea and abdominal cramping, but that is only minor. And as the vaccine can cause liver damage issues, you'll need annual liver functionality testing for the rest of your life. But no Scotch. It will be like drinking water. New? Relatively here on the RIM, yes, but the data from inwards is compellingly simple. The vaccine contains an opioid receptor antagonist that is the modulator of the dopaminergic mesolimbic pathway. Ahh," he said interrupting himself, "and that is one of the primary centers for risk-reward analysis in the brain, and a tertiary 'pleasure center.' Drinking will end for you as a non-fun pastime."

  The doctor leaned back, looked at him, and half-smiled at his patient.

  Tanner sat and stared at the man. His foot was bouncing and he felt sick to his stomach for a moment, then not so much, and then it came back in waves. His stomach churned, but his outward appearance was rock solid as the PTSD swept over him, a prisoner of his past.

  He shrugged and tried to push those feelings away.

  A simple shot, and it was gone. That easy. For a moment, he thought of what drinking had cost him to fight back the rising realization that he actually liked Scotch. But it would be not pleasurable at all. Like drinking water.

  He knew when he was beaten though, and he forced a small smile and wondered if the doctor knew how he felt.

  "You said I have a gene—me and nineteen percent of the galaxy?" he asked and wondered on that for a moment.

  "What would have happened if I didn't have that gene, like most of the rest of us here?"

  The doctor nodded and went back to his tablet. "Then we'd have had to go about this through therapy with its less than thirty percent success rate, and that'd have taken a year or so, so you'd be a permanent resident here, Captain, for at least that amount of time.

  Tanner nodded. "So go down to the outpatient clinic, get a shot, and I'm cured. Then what?" he queried his doctor, knowing what was coming.

  "Then we work on your PTSD, Captain ... your fear of arms, your fear of anything and everything else that has affected you too. That will take some time too, you do realize, correct?"

  He wasn't looking at him, but was typing slowly on his tablet, and Tanner wondered if it was even his file that was on screen, but then he didn't need to know that. What he needed to know was that his reliance on Scotch was over.

  "Doctor, do I need annual vaccine booster shots, every year or ..." he wondered.

  Again, not looking up, the doctor nodded and half-smiled too.

  "Boosters every five years, but the way science works, by the time that rolls around, it might be a single shot forever, Captain. Isn't science fun ..."

  He put down his tablet and then squared himself in his chair at the desk.

  "I see we have twenty minutes yet of time—why don't you tell me more about your boyhood on ... what was the name of that planet again?"

  ####

  Principal Research Scientist is my title, Alex Toombs thought, another way of saying loser.

  He had no idea as to why this was not working as he stared at the remains of the petri dish he'd just hurled at the far wall in the Secure labs, and he did not care who else was in the lab either.

  Most of the other scientists had tucked their heads down and pretended they didn't hear the smash of the glass as it met its end against the steel bulkhead. Others had simply left the lab. Not a one, of course, as he was the head of the team, had chanced to make a comment.

  Petri dishes were cheap, but I wonder what the cost of all of this is.

  Secure lab costs; staff of seventeen scientists and their salaries; those damn Garnuthian mice at more than 240 credits each by the hundreds of dozens; and petri dishes at who knew what costs. This was not a cheap enterprise but one that needed to be done.

  We need that vaccine—if we ever want to use the Ikarian gift.

  Okay, think scientist think.

  It seemed the history of this virus was as follows. It hit the Ikarian planet and just about did the whole civilization in as it raised dust that killed sunlight and all the crops. One generation died in big numbers. The next lived frugally, with little to eat or even grow, as it took more than a hundred years for the sky to clear and let the life of sunshine back down on the planet. That was further impacted by the climate changes, the changes to the continents due to the huge impact of the comet, and more importantly maybe, the changes that happened to the Ikarian society too.

  "Right," he said to himself, "so the comet damage in say two or three generations was slowly beaten back by the planet itself."

  The climates righted themselves, land became fertile once more, and the people worked at existence.

  But the secret was, of course, that the comet carried a virus—that once released, lived and survived and infected each and every Ikarian on the planet.

  So they were all infected. But the adults it was said got little in a boost of longevity—it was the children who when puberty arrived were most affected, and it was them who gained the lengthened years. From a population who lived on average about 110 years, the data said, the new children of each generation doubled that number. Two hundred. Three hundred. Perhaps even four hundred years was what the Ikarians now lived. Or more.

  No new virus infections were made, as the Sleeper Ship was populated with sleeping children.

  And no one else had ever been infected as that came from being alive on Ikaria.

  He shrugged.

  No way to tell why it worked. No way to tell how it worked, and if we don't start to get better results, we'll be just like ... just like ...

  That stopped him cold—wait, there was an idea bu
bbling there ...

  He nurtured that thought, letting it grow in his brain, and matched it against what he knew science-wise and against what he knew, Ikarian-wise, and finally, he smiled. It wasn't a broad smile, but a small sort of inner one that leaked out onto his face.

  "It might be," he said to himself and looked around the room.

  There was no one here with that kind of specialty—so he barked loudly at his number two.

  "Manson, get over here," he said and turned in all directions until he saw his aide over in the far corner, busy on the bottom shelf of a large bookcase.

  Research scientist Errol Manson stood, and with a slow shudder, he walked the full length of the lab to stand in front of his boss.

  "Sir," he said quietly, questioning his call.

  "Manson, I need the best liver guy on the planet here in front of me in two hours. Find him or her. Get them here then. No equivocations either, Manson," he said and his voice was taut and full of importance.

  Manson nodded, half-turned away, and then looked back at Toombs.

  Toombs nodded and said, "I meant NOW, Manson," and he looked back at the petri dish rack in front of him.

  The fact that they were all un-bloomed was one thing. The fact that the whole test, E-04, was forsaken was not important either.

  He'd have to let Ward know to kill the latest batch of mice down in the Animal Testing lab too.

  But maybe—just maybe, the liver was the key. Toombs ran through his thoughts out loud.

  “Livers did what livers did—aging affects different organs, tissues, and cell types in the same organism in different ways; that is, the extent of age-associated perturbations of structure and function is site-specific. The effects of aging on the mammalian liver had never been clearly resolved. Despite the plethora of age-associated changes in hepatic structure and function that have been described, many of these observations are qualitative in nature, were made under less than optimal experimental conditions, or are simply conflicting."