Writers of the Future Volume 27: The Best New Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year

by L. Ron Hubbard

  I slice his suit wide open with a laser cutter. Then I cover the burnt tissue with wet saline bandages out of the dispenser below my tricep. With my med-tool I squirt a thick layer of Plasticone Band-X over the damaged tissue. As I apply them, the synthetic peptides harden to the consistency of stiff plastic. The nutrient-rich material will be absorbed by the body in a few hours and staunch the bleeding until then. His breathing is really labored, so I do a quick fasciotomy with my laser scalpel, making long longitudinal cuts from the mid-clavicle to just beneath his ribs. It looks like hell, but the scorched flesh relaxes and he can breathe.

  The hud tells me he’s sliding into cardiac arrest, so I inject a few picobot motors for good measure. The little buggers’ll swim to his heart and zap him a few times, keep him out of ventricular fibrillation. Saves me the trouble of cracking open the breastbone, even though I kind of enjoy that part.

  Now the legs. Nothing there below the knees, and they’re clean cuts. I’ve seen the wound before and realize I was right to think it was a gravity slammer. Must’ve smashed his shins to a pancake about a millimeter thick.

  “Bet that hurt, huh?” I say, chuckling.

  I pull out two small plasticine tubes I fit snugly over the amputated areas. A single command from my suit tightens them and cuts off the blood flow. I throw a layer of Band-X over the open wound for good measure.

  He’s stabilized. Three sheets to the wind, too. I slap him across the face and he smiles. Asshole. He doesn’t even notice the tube I stick down his throat. The end of it finds his larynx and slides in. These automatic tubes make it so easy. The other end expands and I hook him up to a portable oxygen pump. Finishing, I lash the whole thing to his side with some surgical tape. He’ll live.

  I hit the squelch on the command net.

  “This is Angel-0-4, one for pickup my location. Staff officer with burns to the upper torso, about twenty-four percent coverage, double amputation below the knees, stabilized but tachycardic, over.”

  A burst of static. “Roger, 0-4, stand by. It’s too hot right now. We’ll get back to you for extraction, over.” I recognize the voice. That damn female corporal up on the Monongahela.

  “Roger that, darling,” I say, grinning because I know that pisses her off. “For the record, that’s a credit either way, out.”

  I flip off the radio, chuckling. That’s a credit. A life’s a life. Not my fault they’re too chicken to pick him up. He dies now, it’s on them.

  “Guess no one loves you, sir,” I say.

  I smile. That’s number nine hundred ninety-five. Five more to go and I’m done.

  Days by the water are the ones I remember. The colony on Germonium was right beside the ocean, and it reminded me of growing up in South Carolina. Germonium is ninety percent water, clear and blue. It’s where I met Kayla and where we fell in love. The waterways running between the marshes reeked of salt and stale brine, just like the pungent wetlands around Harbor Island, where as a boy I’d gone knee deep in marsh mud trying to startle soft crabs into a hand net. There aren’t crabs on that alien world, of course, but the idea was the same. Kayla’s a great student and took to it fast. When she pulled her first wriggling kractali out of those black waters and grinned at me with those little fingers of wet hair clinging to her cheek, I knew I’d marry her.

  That was before the war. Before the Cnidaria. We were ignorant then, and I guess that’s okay. The ignorant seem happier.

  The Monongahela is a big ship, but it still seems like we’re all on top of one another. People are everywhere, bumping into one another. Makes me miss my nice quiet hole down there on the planet.

  I never eat with anyone. I’m not antisocial; it’s just that watching someone chow down makes me nauseated. I can’t watch the mush roll around in their mouths or hear the lips smacking. But it’s too cramped in the mess hall to avoid that, and as I sit here, there’s a sea of pea green overalls floating around me. I’ve seen most of them before; I just can’t recall faces. After so long on this ship, they’re just walking scars to me. Piles of injuries I’ve treated, dragged from the battlefield, patched together and sent back in.

  I see the private over there and remember when I tucked his eyeball back into the socket when some shrapnel took half his scalp.

  I see that sergeant, the big Hispanic guy with the tight gym shirt. One of his arms is slightly off color. It’s cloned, and I bet it still smells like plastic and old leather. The one his momma gave him got disintegrated under a gravity slammer.

  And there’s that corporal over there, chatting with a nice-looking petty officer. The females are just drawn to him. But when I see him, I think of the day he had a certain body part blown off, and I’m amazed his libido doesn’t seem to suffer. They can clone anything nowadays. But I just don’t like the idea of cloning that.

  Guys getting blown apart, crushed, burned alive, suffocated, vaporized, disemboweled, decapitated or smashed into pasty little bits of bone. It used to get to me a lot more than it does now. Maybe I felt more then, or maybe it’s something else. Being underground is safer, and that’s why medics make it their home. But it cuts you off, too, and gives you lots of time to think.

  I can’t help counting the days, though, until I go back down planet-side. In my hole, where it’s dark and safe and quiet, and I don’t have to suffer fools.

  A young blond kid edges up to the table. I see his crutch, the sani-wrap around his leg, and I know what’s coming.

  “Sergeant Silk, I’m Private Hartlyn. I don’t know if you remember, but you pulled me out of a burning glide tank three weeks ago. I just wanted to thank you. I hope I can repay you someday.”

  I remember him. I remember all of them. He holds out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.

  “No difference to me, Private. I got credit for your life,” I say, but I don’t shake his hand. I only shake with people I respect. He holds his hand there for a long moment.

  “My girlfriend made me promise to give these to you,” he says and produces a small box. “They’re cookies, real ones. She made them for you. Chocolate chip.”

  I stare at him. He puts the cookies on the table and fidgets. I keep staring.

  “She prays for you every night, Sergeant. Here, look,” he says and pulls his portable out of his pants pocket. “This is her.”

  He holds it out, beaming at me. Her photo is on the portable. She’s blond like him, lithe and beautiful. So damn perfect that I hate them both. “Her name’s Paige.”

  I knock the portable out of his hand and it flies across the room. “Get the hell out of here,” I growl.

  He hesitates, confused.

  “now!” I yell, and the private retreats as fast as his crutch can carry him.

  “That was great, Tom. Kid just wanted to thank you and you bite his head off.” The voice is familiar. I groan.

  “I didn’t ask for any thanks,” I say, “and I didn’t ask to get a photo of his damn girl shoved in my face.”

  He takes a seat. “Another day and no messages, I take it.”

  I nod. “Not a damn thing.” Kayla never writes me. Says it’s too hard, and it just reminds her how far apart we are. I’d still like to get a letter once in a while, though.

  “Well,” he says, trying to sound way too sympathetic, “maybe tomorrow.”

  Normally an officer like him would make me stand and salute him, but I’ve known Captain Nirvelli for too long. He’s one of our trauma surgeons and probably the best on the Monongahela. I play cards with some of the guys from the hospital sometimes, and I like Nirvelli because he’s not very good.

  “Nothing wrong with wanting to show a little gratitude,” he says and takes a cookie.

  “Not when I’m trying to eat.”

  He grunts and keeps chewing, as usual with his mouth wide open. I try not to look, but my food starts tasting like pa
ste anyway.

  “So what’s it at now?” he asks.

  “Nine ninety-five,” I reply.

  He whistles. “Close,” he says. “You outta here, then? Back to that podunk planet?”

  “You got it,” I say, “fast as that transport’ll take me.”

  “Shame to lose you, Silk. You know, I know the counselor on the Bowditch—” He stops abruptly, chews for few moments, then grins at me. “Hey, game tonight! New guys in from Earth.”

  “Officers?”

  “Butter bars.”

  I smile. “Hell, I’m in.” I’ll always play with officers. They have more money to lose.

  Medic!”

  I’m awake. I sit up and bang my head on the bulkhead above my bunk. Sometimes I hear them scream in my sleep, and I forget where I am. But this time I was dreaming about Carolina, about walking along the tidal marsh. Things are always out of place in my dreams. I was a child, but Kayla was there. She was chasing the surf, in and out, playing a little game. The surf slid in fast and ran over her feet. She screamed. I ran after her, but in slow motion. When I got to her, I saw a jellyfish clinging to her foot. The gelatinous tentacles wrapped around her tiny foot, stingers lashing scarlet welts into her skin.

  She screamed again, but her voice was the voice of a soldier. A soldier calling for help.

  I seem to always dream about water. In liquid form, it’s a rare thing in the universe. A lot of species need it, and there’s just not enough to go around. So, if a planet has liquid water, sooner or later someone will fight over it.

  The Cnidaria need water badly. I guess, on their planet, evolution decided it was better to stay in the ocean, so they built a civilization beneath the waves. At least that’s what they tell us. Actually, few people have ever seen a Cnidarian in person. They always fight to the death, and so do we. I’ve even heard that the things we fight aren’t actually the Cnidaria, but some kind of drones they grow in a lab and use for war. Soldiers trade stories like that to pass the time, and the more absurd the rumor the better. There’s no doubt the Jellies need large oceans to live in, and any planet that has them is a fair target.

  Ante up, boys,” Nirvelli says.

  He was right about the butter bar. The lieutenant looks like a baby to me. Did I ever look that young? He notices me watching him and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. I stare at him and watch him squirm.

  The other butter bar walks in to our little poker oasis and huffs. He looks around, puts his hands on his hips and stares at me. I ignore him.

  “Sergeant, I believe it’s customary to stand when an officer enters the room,” he says, and I hear Nirvelli stifle a laugh.

  Oh boy. It’s one of these guys. “Yeah, I believe it is,” I reply with a giant eye roll, and I go back to my cards.

  He stands there longer, staring, until Nirvelli tells him to sit the hell down. This kid’s gotta be from the academy. They grow that kind of attitude there.

  “First thing you should learn,” Nirvelli says, lecturing the boy, “is to keep your trap shut until you know the deal. You pull that crap with the sergeant major and he’ll have your ass for lunch.”

  I chuckle. It’s true. I realize I’m no ray of sunshine, but the sergeant major is a genuine asshole.

  “Lucky for you, Sergeant Silk is a real sweetheart,” he says.

  “No,” I say, “I just never forget. You’re already on the list, LT.”

  The kid broods and takes his seat, still shooting me dirty looks. Lucky for him, he’s not in my company. Stupid kid like that’s bound to get hit down there, and I might decide to take my time getting to him.

  “Gentlemen, the game is five card stud. Deuces are wild.”

  “So start dealing, Captain,” I say. “I need to get me some officer’s pay.”

  “We have one more coming,” he says, shuffling, “should be here any second.”

  I sit back, instantly suspicious. “Who’s—”

  The door slides open and the first thing I see is a colonel’s bird glinting in the dim light. I stare daggers at Nirvelli.

  “Ten-shun!” the kid shouts as he bolts upright. I get up slower, grumbling.

  Colonel Perdomo walks in, and now I know this is all a trap.

  “As you were, fellas,” he says as he takes his seat. “Thanks for the invite, Captain. Haven’t played in ages.”

  I seriously consider walking right out, but I know it’s not that easy.

  “Sergeant Silk,” Perdomo says, “good to see you again.”

  I nod. You just can’t trust officers.

  Colonel Perdomo is the division retention officer. His job is to try to get young soldiers to re-up, whether they want to or not. It’s not a hard job because most soldiers don’t live through an entire tour of duty anyway, or at least the ground pounders don’t. The colonel is a man with a good amount of free time on his hands.

  But he can’t play cards worth anything. And right now, I’m sitting on a few hundred credits’ worth of his money. His thin face and hooked nose seem to be damp all the time, and his slicked-back hair looks like it belongs on someone in a casket. In the time we’ve been playing, I’ve learned his tell. He drums his fingers when he’s carrying junk. I know it, and so does Nirvelli. A couple more hands and the poor colonel will go home a broken man.

  Despite the fact I’m sitting on most of his paycheck, though, the colonel keeps peeking at me with ferret eyes that tell me he’s got something to say. It bugs me, and I want to get up and bolt, but I decide to stay long enough to clean him out. I need the money, especially for Kayla and her kid.

  “So, Sergeant,” he says finally, clearing his throat, “Captain Nirvelli tells me you may not be with us too much longer.”

  “I think you could say that about any soldier on this ship, sir,” I reply.

  He laughs. “That’s a bit morbid.”

  “Then maybe you’re in the wrong war, sir.”

  He fidgets with his chips. Nirvelli deals and I’ve got two pair. Tens. The butter bar to my left looks at his cards and lets out a big sigh. Nice poker face.

  “Your name’s been thrown around in staff meetings,” Perdomo says. “A lot of good things are being said about your work here.”

  I don’t say anything, being too engrossed in my cards. I take three cards and get another ten and a wild two. Perdomo takes two and chews his lip.

  “There’s even talk of promotion, maybe a battlefield commission.”

  Nirvelli laughs. “Silk as a butter bar?”

  Perdomo continues. “You two don’t know him,” he says to the butter bars, “but Sergeant Silk here is a medic who’s saved almost one thousand lives on the battlefield. He’s been in active service over four years.”

  They both look at me, their eyes wide. Suddenly they respect me, but that only pisses me off more. First impressions count, and I already decided they’re both little pricks.

  “What can I do to help you decide to stay on, Tom?” Perdomo says.

  “You can start by not calling me Tom,” I say. “I don’t call you ‘Javier’ or whatever the hell you go by.”

  He flushes red, embarrassed. The butter bars shift in their seats. I’m sure they’ve never heard a sergeant talk to a colonel like that. I smile a little.

  “Tom, he’s just making small talk,” Nirvelli says.

  “If I want to chew the fat, I’ll take a bite outta your wife’s ass, Nirvelli,” I say. “I’m here to play poker. Raise me three hundred.”

  Nirvelli chuckles. “Call.”

  Perdomo senses he’s lost face. “Boys, we give Sergeant Silk leniency here because he’s very good at his job. A lot of men owe him their lives, including me. But that only goes so far.”

  He goes all in. Then he drums his fingers. The butter bars both fold. I raise another hundred.<
br />
  “Too rich for my blood,” Nirvelli says and folds.

  “Just you and me, Sergeant,” Perdomo says. “Say, what are your plans for afterward, anyway? What’s in Sergeant Silk’s future?”

  “I’m gonna spend it far away from here.”

  “Doing what?”

  “No idea. Maybe I’ll fish. Maybe I’ll farm. Maybe I’ll just lie around all day and get a tan. Either way, I’ll live near the water and I won’t waste time shooting the bull with retention officers.”

  “Live near the water? Sounds nice.” He fidgets with his cards nervously. “You know, I think you got a rotten deal. I might’ve done the same thing if I was in your shoes. Any of us might have. The system stinks sometimes.”

  “It warms my heart to hear that, sir, but I won’t change my mind.”

  He looks at me sadly, and I hate sympathy. “So it’s going to be Germonium, then?”

  “Yep.”

  “And your fiancée?” he asks.

  “Gonna see her there. Maybe raise a family.”

  “On Germonium?”

  “You heard me.”

  He smiles, sanctimonious. “I guess we all have our dreams. What about practicing medicine?”

  “I step foot off this ship, I’m not a medic anymore. Never will be again,” I reply.

  “You have talent, Tom,” he says. “Everyone here knows it. You could help so many more people. Good medics are hard to find.”

  “Sorry, sir,” I reply, “but I thought this was a card game, not an intervention.”

  He stirs. “I’ll raise you all I got.” He puts in all his money. The pot’s around nine hundred now. I try to suppress my growing glee.

  “You got balls, sir,” I say. “All in.”

  He grins, drums his fingers even harder. “Let’s see what you got.”

  I show my hand. Full house. Aces full of tens. I smile and he deflates. I want to take a mental picture of this moment.