by Garon Whited
“You are not entitled to anything. You don’t deserve to be here. You exist on charity and goodwill—and we’re fresh out of goodwill! We flew through hard vacuum and solar radiation for three days to rescue you. We opened up our home to give you a place to stay. You’ve been pushy, demanding, and downright annoying since the moment you got here, and that’s not the behavior of polite guests—especially not to these people,” I gestured at the rest of the Luna Base crew, “who have bent themselves into pretzels trying to help you!”
The guy who asked the question opened his mouth. I swung around with a long arm and a pointed finger, resting it just under his nose.
“You shut the hell up!” I shouted. My vision seemed to narrow down to just his face. “I’m tired of listening to you whine and complain! If you don’t like your accommodations, your food, or your bedding, fine! I don’t really care if your room is too small, your food too bland, or your bed too lumpy! I was shot trying to save you, and I’m not taking any more of this. I’ve been out of sickbay for twelve hours and already I’ve had all I can stand of idiotic blathering and complaining! I’m tired and I’m hurt and I’m not nearly as patient with incompetent morons as I should be! If you don’t like it, we can take you back to your busted-up habitat—or you’re welcome to cycle out the airlock and walk! And good riddance!”
The refugees—I couldn’t think of them as “guests” anymore; guests have manners—immediately started arguing with me, trying to justify themselves, and complained about my high-handed attitude. I should have known it wouldn’t do any good. I wanted to shake them, break up their self-centered stupidity and make them see that things were different now. Things could never go back to the way they were. Those days were over and done, never to be regained in our lifetime.
Suddenly, Kathy was there, along with Galena. And Kiska, and Anne, and Julie, and Sara, and Svetlana… everyone. Kathy had a shoulder under my arm and Peng was half-lifting me from the other side. We all went out the door while Anne skipped ahead. I wondered, vaguely, where we were going and why.
It didn’t matter. The morons were gone. I was surrounded by friends. I had a nap.
Chapter Eleven
“Underlying the whole scheme of civilization is the confidence men have in each other, confidence in their integrity, confidence in their honesty, confidence in their future.”
— William Bourke Cockran (1854-1923)
“What did I tell you?”
“Take my supplements?” I replied, hesitantly.
Anne looked stern behind her surgical mask. Considering I was flat on my back and looking up at her, I found it oddly intimidating. The way her eyes narrowed at me had nothing at all to do with the lights.
“I told you Regenex treatments are hard on a person. I told you to take it easy. You sprang a leak, had low blood pressure to begin with, had a lot of numbers that were marginal, and didn’t have enough clotting factors to avoid gushing like a hose. And after all my careful stitching! Do you have any idea how hard it is to patch a twice-ruptured vein?”
“No.”
“Think of it like this: how hard is it to stitch together a pressure hose after the previous stitching has already torn loose?”
“I don’t know; I don’t stitch hoses closed. I apply a sealant to the break area and tape… the…” I trailed off. I wasn’t feeling my sharpest, and Anne was giving me that look again. “…but I see your point and I’m very, very sorry Doctor Ma’am Lieutenant Sir.”
“That’s better.”
“When can I get back to work?”
“If you lie still and rest as much as possible, maybe a week.”
“A week?” I think I squeaked it.
“Make that two weeks. If I let you up even then. We can’t pump you full of drugs to glue you back together again; that would probably kill you. If you could have kept your cool for just one day more—but no. You had to be grumpy. To pay for it, you’ll have to get well the old-fashioned way.”
“Are you kidding? I have a coil gun to work on, a docking tube to build, a window to install, plus a major overhaul of the Luna’s fuel system to handle the aluminum-oxygen mix—to say nothing of starting up processing operations to make the fuel—”
“—and you won’t get any of that done if you’re bleeding to death internally.”
I paused in mid-tirade. I had passed out…
“Is that really a danger? I mean, I feel fine. Now, anyway.”
“It was a danger. If you get stupid on me again, it still could be. The original gunshot wound did only moderate damage. As it is, we got you back on your feet fast—but at a price. Everything would have been fine if you’d stayed fairly calm. Instead, you managed to rupture yourself and make the problem a lot worse. The hole itself isn’t in any major organs, but the blood loss is significant.”
“How significant?”
“About twenty minutes to bleed to death; the main concern was damage to a renal vein. If the original injury had been to the artery, you’d never have made it back to the Luna, much less base. You’re lucky to be here, and you’re twice lucky to survive that wound again after your tantrum. Three times lucky, if you count keeping the kidney.”
Anne went on to explain. When I reached the infirmary, I’d been white as a ghost and nearly became one. She’d been forced to use some irreplaceable medical supplies—an artificial blood substitute—while the rest of the crew got punctured for donations.
One of the nice things about the space program: Protracted missions generally make sure the crew is cross-typed for blood beforehand; if possible, everyone is a compatible blood type with everyone else. Anne didn’t need to check who could give to whom; that had already been tested in the labs back on Earth—but she’d checked our new crewmembers too, as a matter of routine. So the needles came out and people bled for me.
“Oh,” was my reply.
“Now,” she added, sweetly, “will you be a good boy and stay in bed? Or do I have to order you strapped down?”
I snuggled down in bed and tried to look meek. I’m a trifle big for that, but I guess it worked; she left me alone. Not that I stayed alone for more than thirty seconds.
Kathy, Kiska, Galena, Svetlana, and Sara all trooped in as soon as she went out; I think they were waiting for her go-ahead. At a bet, everyone else was on duty and would get around to visiting when the shift changed.
Kathy’s first order of business was to kiss me. It was a no-nonsense buss that told me that she’d missed me, worried about me, and was enormously glad I was alive. Well, so was I.
Kiska stepped up once Kathy was done. I think I saw a quick look between them—Kiska looked at Kathy, Kathy gave a micrometric nod, and Kiska kissed me. It wasn’t nearly the passionate lip-lock Kathy had handed out. It was quick, but I could tell that she meant it. Considering her recent past, I felt highly honored; I didn’t think that she’d want to do more than hold hands with anybody for a year or three.
The look that passed between Kathy and Svetlana was interesting and complex and probably something only women can translate into words. There was considerable coldness there, but Kathy didn’t deny Svetlana the opportunity. Svetlana, for her part, decided to hand me a romantic, tender kiss, although not quite dry. A very thought-provoking kiss, I must say.
They all took a turn. I felt like the owner of a kissing booth at a fair. A profitable one. Not that I’m complaining.
“Not to look a gift smooch in the mouth,” I began, “but what was all that for?”
“To convince you that you ought to stick around, you lug,” Sara answered. “Anyone who can do a bloody fine job of sending a bunch of yammering fools to the knackers, even while his guts are leaking, deserves to be kept about.”
Kiska and Kathy just nodded. Galena added, “Also, we have an investment.”
“Investment?”
They rolled up their sleeves. Each had a taped bandage around an elbow, evidence of their bravery in the face of large-bore needles.
“Aw, no
! Everybody?” I asked. I didn’t know what to say. Heck, I didn’t know what to feel. Happy that they cared so much, sure—but how about scared that I needed so much?
Everyone depends on me. I’m used to that. I’m not so good at depending on other people. Most people screw up when I need them. It took a long time in training before I really started to trust the rest of the Luna’s crew. I guess it was time to start learning again. Especially for people who faced needles for me. I hate needles.
“Not everyone,” Kathy replied. “Peng’s blood work came back negative for you. Most of the original crew is type O; Julie was not best pleased to be AB. Sara, Kiska, and Galena are all O as well.”
“Thank god for that. I’d hate to have Peng trying to kiss me.”
Kiska giggled. “I wonder how the Captain will feel about that!”
“Eh? What about the Captain?”
“He came down to donate, too.”
“Crap. Can I talk someone into relaying the kiss for me? Um… he’s a busy man and, ah, shouldn’t be bothered?”
That was good for a laugh and unanimous assurances that at least one of them would take care of it. I thought Sara had an especially enthusiastic smile. I miss all the good gossip, darn it.
“He said he ought to set an example,” Kiska went on, “and something about how you keep offering up the toil, tears, and sweat—the least he could do was bleed a little.”
“A student of history, this Captain of ours,” Sara noted. “Quotes Churchill parenthetically.”
“I beg your pardon?” Kiska asked.
“Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Famous for winning the Second Global War. When he became Prime Minister, he gave a speech and said the only thing he had to offer was blood, toil, tears, and sweat.”
“Wow,” I remarked. “I’m glad I didn’t need to make everybody pale and trembling. How bad was it?” There was some looking away and a little foot-shuffling. “That bad, huh?”
“Um. No, not really,” Kiska said. “After the artificial stuff, a couple of pints was all Anne needed or wanted. We got you to the infirmary quickly.”
I did some math. “So, altogether you gave, what, twice that?”
Galena shook her head. “We all volunteered.” While I stared at her she blushed. “Was not much to volunteer, less even than at hospital for donating.”
“We were rather insistent,” Kathy admitted. I wondered just how insistent that was. Were there threats involved, or just a lot of significant looks? I didn’t ask; Kathy was talking. “Anne finally poked holes in all of us.”
“Just to shut our yaps,” Sara added.
“Captain Carl agreed to it and said it was a good symbol of unity and Lunar citizenship,” Kathy finished.
I don’t know how I felt about that. I mean, yeah, it’s good to know that we’re all united as citizens of the moon…. A bunch of people just decided—no, demanded—that they be allowed to contribute their very own blood on my behalf. The only other time I’ve had a blood transfusion, it was a bag someone got out of medical stores. This was… this was more personal. These people weren’t walking blood sacks waiting to be used; these are my friends.
My Uncle Jim once told me how to tell if someone is a friend: A friend is someone who may sometimes go away, but never leaves you.
My vision got all blurry. There were a lot of hands holding mine, suddenly.
“Would you like to be alone, Max?” Kathy asked.
“That’s impossible,” I replied, voice cracking, “now.”
* * *
The construction of the base, necessitating as it did an almost exclusive use of native material, lent itself more to individual rooms than to open spaces with partitions. Not only was it impractical to construct lightweight, sound-absorbing cubicle walls when a concrete wall was much quicker and easier, but it also provided additional compartmentalization in the event of a pressure loss. The net result was a series of private rooms for recovering patients.
This was a good thing. It let me have visitors, get work done—work that could be done while flat on my back, mainly through the room’s terminal—and avoid being bothered by hypochondriacs.
One of the difficulties the Liwei station personnel faced was the fact that the majority of the residents, were there for a valid medical reason. A low-gravity environment is much easier on a heart. A person with severe bone degeneration doesn’t have to worry so much about a fall in one-third or even one-tenth gravity. These conditions are pretty much palliated by living in low gravity.
It’s the healthy ones that insisted they were sick that drove Anne around the bend and up the wall.
She came into my room and shut the door. I glanced up from the terminal screen in my lap; I was using it as a touch screen and supervising robot workers on my electromagnetic space cannon. She looked harried.
“What’s up, Doc?” I asked. “Is it time for another sponge bath, you frisky thing, you?”
She didn’t smile. I gathered she wasn’t happy.
“No. I’m just hiding for a bit. Do you mind?”
“Nope. Pull up a chair and pretend to lecture me.” I swung the terminal on its arm back against the wall. “What’re you hiding from?”
She sat down slowly—that’s the only way you can, on the Moon—and exploded, “Idiots!”
“I don’t like ’em much, myself. Which ones this time?”
“McAdams. There’s nothing wrong with him—nothing! He’s healthy as a horse and insists that he’s dying!”
“Dying?”
“Heart attacks, stroke, palsy, cancer, you name it—he’s sure he’s dying from it. I’ve tested him half to death and can’t find anything wrong with him that exercise wouldn’t cure. But does he believe me? No!”
I blinked. Her tone was more vindictive than I ever recalled.
“Sounds like a real problem child. Ever considered giving him something to be sick about, then fixing it?”
She looked tempted. “I can’t, Max. I took an oath. But if I could… oh, if I could! He’s enough to tempt me.”
I was right. I knew she looked tempted.
“I can see that. Okay. So get a shot ready, give him a lot of buildup about experimental military drugs, warn him that there could be serious side effects—it might shorten his life, make his kids have two heads, stuff like that—and have him sign a thick bundle of waivers and whatnot. Wire him up to every sensor you have. Stick him in the backside with the biggest needle in stock. Put some ice-cold water into him—maybe with something to make him a little sleepy and nauseous—and don’t let him up for twenty-four hours while he’s ‘under observation for possible fatal side-effects.’ Tell him he’s incredibly lucky that it didn’t kill him and that he’ll need a shot every day from now on—he’ll die without it—but he should be okay otherwise.”
Anne stared at me. “Max! I can’t lie to him like that!”
“Who says you’re lying? If he believes he’ll feel better, maybe he will. Placebo effect, or something like that. He believes he’s sick. Make him believe he’s better.”
She looked dubious. “I’m not sure I can condone that sort of thing.”
I shrugged. “Just a thought. You must do what’s in your patients’ best interest, of course…”
“Smooth, Max. By the way, Kathy wanted me to give you this.” She reached into a coat pocket and brought out a clinical-looking container.
“What’s it for?”
She told me, bluntly. I’d never seen one before.
“You should be well enough for that,” she added, and handed it over. “Call me when you’re done and I’ll freeze the little wigglers until you and Kathy are ready to have a baby. Then we can mix and match until we get the best possible combination.” She patted my arm and left.
I turned the thing over in my hands, considering it. Obviously, since Kathy suggested it, she was willing. Was I? We’d had some idle chitchat about it and some half-jesting, half-serious comments… I guess she was more serious about it than I t
hought. Or thought I was more serious about it than I was.
Come to that, how serious was I? Was I ready to be a father?
I make a great uncle. I’ve done okay as a big brother. But as a Dad? I’ve never tried it. It’s like being in command—I make a great assistant, but I’m not sure I’m qualified to sit in the worry seat. How do I know I won’t foul it up? I don’t know, and that scares me. I’m used to knowing what I’m doing. I’m also used to people depending on me, but this is a whole order of magnitude bigger.
But… how much harder is it to be a Mom?
Kathy knows her faults and flaws. She’s not afraid of them. She’s willing—even eager—to take on a responsibility that scares the unholy blue fritters out of me. And the pink and purple ones.
She thinks I’ve got what it takes to be a Dad.
Well, she outranks me. I guess I can look at “Dad” as “Assistant Mom.” Between the two of us, maybe we can manage it. Besides, the human race isn’t getting any younger.
I did what I had to do and buzzed Anne. Once she was gone again, I lay back down and tried to get a grip on the idea of being a father. I guess it’s like being an uncle, but full-time. I’m not sure I have the patience for that. Or the foresight to plan far enough ahead for the responsibility. The kid would need education, training, a lot of care and time and attention… Ford, at least, could sometimes fend for himself.
Still, it might be nice to raise an assistant engineer from the ground up. Maybe let him—or her!—play with wrenches and get used to them from the start… What sort of place is this for children? Not much in the way of vulnerable electrical outlets… no stairs… a fair number of sharp corners, of course… airlock doors are a problem, but the controls are too high for small children to reach, and older ones can be taught…
