Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

  There have been two more debriefings—somewhere—somewhen—with never a sense of being clearheaded until she woke up here, in a five-cell pod in some kind of jail, with her head shaved, guarded by people in decontamination suits, whose faces she could not see. They answered no questions, gave only brief orders.

  Periodically, she was taken out of the cell and allowed to shower, provided with a clean orange short-legged jumper, clean cloth slippers, and a clean striped robe. Then for an hour she was interrogated by someone behind a window. Every third interrogation was followed by a brief visit with the others confined here, and then by a physical exam and a return to her cell.

  She was the senior. She was responsible for the others—all the others, from Staff Sergeant Kurin, next junior, to Ennisay, the most junior—and she did not know where most of them were, or what had happened to them, or even why she and the other senior NCOs were confined here.

  Asking had brought little information, and only in the first interrogation. Supposedly they had been exposed to a deadly contaminant, and were in quarantine. Supposedly Admiral Vatta had the same thing and had died. No one would tell her—if they even knew—what the contaminant was, toxin or disease. She didn’t feel sick—when she wasn’t drugged—but she did feel uneasy, annoyed, and bored.

  She sat up when she had counted down what she hoped was about five minutes, and fetched the tray from the door slot. Cereal, hot. A drink that was neither coffee nor tea, but a weak attempt at a brown liquid to drink at breakfast. A packet of sweetener for the cereal, a little container of white liquid for the brown liquid, another little container with a pill she was supposed to take.

  And the cell was monitored. Leaving the pill in its container meant she would be given an injection within the hour. That was not a result she wanted, but she knew the pill—blue with a white stripe—was a sedative. It must be the day for moving them from cell to cell. She would be barely conscious for several hours, and then be returned to a cell that smelled strongly of cleansing solutions and also felt “different” from the one she had just left.

  Why were they doing this? She ate the cereal with sweetener, because she had to eat something, stirred the white liquid into the brown one, and drank down the pill. The drowsiness came soon after; she was barely aware when she was bundled into a float chair and taken out of the cell.

  This time she woke in a larger room, with her companions in their own float chairs to either side. She turned her head. Staff Sergeant Kurin blinked. I’m aware, that meant. Sergeant Cosper didn’t look at her; he still seemed dazed. Sergeant Chok blinked. Sergeant McLenard stared at the floor. Gossin looked around the room. A transparent screen separated them from a table beyond, with five chairs behind it. A door centered that wall. This was completely new. She tried to turn and look behind her, only then realizing she was strapped into the float chair, unable to turn her body or move her arms.

  The door behind the table opened, and three women and two men came in, all in military uniform. Four officers each represented a branch of Slotter Key’s military: Spaceforce, AirDefense, Air-Sea Rescue, and Surface Warfare. The fifth represented enlisted personnel, the sergeant major of the entire military, Sonja Tonaya Morrison. They pulled out the chairs and sat down facing the screen, picking up earbuds and putting them in. Gossin could hear the scrape of their chairs, the rustle of their clothing, throats clearing. Someone in a plain gray smock entered with a tray: two water pitchers. Behind him came another, with a tray of glasses, and these were set down on the table, a glass for each of those seated, a pitcher at each end. The two in smocks left. Another man came in, this one in uniform, bearing a stack of folders, which he set down beside the man in the center.

  “We’ll begin,” said the man in the middle. “Is the recording on? Testing?”

  Gossin could not hear any response, but he nodded.

  “Present at this meeting of the committee tasked with determining the status and prognosis of those individuals who survived the shuttle crash and were recovered from Miksland are myself, Colonel Asimin Nedari, chair, representing Land Forces; Commander Palo Gohran, Spaceforce; Lieutenant Colonel Djuliana Dikar, AirDefense; Lieutenant Commander Howard Buckram, Air-Sea Rescue; and Sergeant Major Sonja Morrison.

  “This meeting is being held at the Clemmander Rehabilitation Center, under contract to treat disabled service members, where Staff Sergeant Gossin, Staff Sergeant Kurin, Sergeant Cosper, Sergeant Chok, and Sergeant McLenard have been treated. Circumstances and investigation so far indicate that all such individuals were exposed to dangerous pathogens, and that all exhibit recurrent symptoms of physical and mental degeneration, including loss of physical conditioning, coordination both fine- and gross-motor, memory deficits, and cognitive deficits.”

  Gossin twitched, all she could do, restrained in the float chair as she was. They weren’t sick and they weren’t disabled—except for the drugs and the confinement.

  “We have been presented with the medical records that document this damage, and the committee as a whole—” Colonel Nedari looked along the table both ways; the others nodded. “—felt it was necessary to see for ourselves the conditions of these cases, before rendering a final decision on their future management. This is our last clinic visit; we have observed all the clinics in which these personnel are being treated. Because of the severity of the condition caused by this unknown pathogen, we have acceded to the medical staff’s recommendation to observe from behind a protective barrier, but we will make every effort to communicate with each individual and ascertain their present condition.”

  A hand went up from the woman on Colonel Nedari’s right, the sergeant major. “I’d like it on the record that this restriction of direct contact with the individuals was opposed by the Senior NCO Association on the grounds that no further cases have been detected.”

  “So noted,” Colonel Nedari said. “But of course, the cases have been in complete quarantine so it is highly unlikely that any more cases would have been found—”

  “Excuse me,” the sergeant major said. “But these individuals had direct contact with Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation personnel immediately after their retrieval, and with our military personnel prior to their arrival at Pingat Base and the Haron Drake Military Hospital, where they were first quarantined. Both Mackensee and Black Torch mercs were in the same underground areas. No cases have been reported by either organization, nor have any shown up from the pre-quarantine contact with Slotter Key troops. The Senior NCO Association considers this reason to question the need for, not the efficacy of, quarantine.”

  “Noted,” the man said again. “Thank you, Sergeant Major Morrison. Nonetheless, this examination will take place under the conditions specified prior to our visit, maintaining quarantine and not endangering unprotected personnel.”

  A pause, during which no one spoke, and three of the panel sipped water from their glasses. Gossin had a brief time to think about what they’d said about her, about them all, and what it might mean. She felt cold. Their captors could have dosed them differentially; that might be why McLenard’s head drooped. She glanced at him again. A line of saliva ran out of his mouth, down his chin, and made a visible wet spot on the bib tied under it. His face had been shaved unevenly, though his head was as hairless as her own. If this was all the committee saw, they would think…they would think what they’d been told, that she and the others were impaired.

  She wriggled, trying to loosen the straps that held her, but they had no give to them.

  “Well, now,” the man in the center said. “We will start with…um…Sergeant McLenard.” He opened the folder on top of the stack. “If the rest of you will consult your chips: I will pass this along as we go, so you can see the originals of the clinical notations.” He raised his voice a little. “Doctor Hastile, if you will indicate Sergeant McLenard, please, and prepare him for examination.”

  “Yes, of course. Corpsman—”

  Though she could turn her head only partway,
Gossin saw two people approach McLenard’s chair, one on either side. Both were garbed in full protective gear, bright yellow this time. She could just make out a human face inside the transparent mask—a face partly covered by a second mask over nose and mouth. One touched the chair controls so it lowered to the floor. The other touched a control to the restraints on McLenard’s arms and legs; they retracted into the float chair frame. One arm fell into his lap, the hand clenched oddly; the other slid over the side of the float chair and jerked in an uneven rhythm.

  “Sergeant McLenard. Can you state your name, rank, and number for this committee?”

  McLenard’s mouth gaped; his tongue protruded, licked at his lips, but he said nothing. One of the yellow-garbed figures leaned over him. “McLenard! Pay attention! Name!”

  “Mmmm. Muh…eh…luh…nuh.”

  “Rank! Say your rank!”

  “Ssss…uh…ahh…juh…”

  “What day is it?” No answer. Of course, Gossin thought, he could not answer. None of them could. They had been kept isolated, away from sunlight or dark, calendars or clocks. She had no idea how long she’d been here, what day it was, what time of day it was. It wasn’t McLenard’s fault—and besides, he was drugged. Couldn’t the committee tell that?

  “Doctor, let’s see him walk.”

  “He doesn’t walk without support.”

  “Let’s see, anyway.”

  The two men levered McLenard up to a standing position; he was clearly unsteady. One took each arm, and the voice Gossin identified as “the doctor” urged him to walk forward. His gait was weak, unsteady; he needed the support of both men to keep him from falling, and after seven or eight steps they half carried him back to the float chair.

  “Doctor.” That was the sergeant major. “Has he had any medications that would produce this effect?”

  “No. He is on a mild sedative to prevent self-injury—” The doctor lifted McLenard’s arm, pushed up the sleeve of his robe, and showed a linear scab. “He picks at his arms if we don’t either sedate or restrain him. But nothing that would cause ataxia or the kind of mental deficit he shows.”

  Gossin wanted to scream Liar at him, but she was afraid of what they would do to her. She had had drugs that morning; she could feel them fogging her brain, though not as much. She knew the implant they’d put in her head could administer drugs as well.

  “And your prognosis, Doctor?”

  “Sergeant McLenard will not improve. He will require permanent custodial care for the rest of his life.”

  “Thank you. When you are ready, we will continue with…uh…Sergeant Chok.”

  Chok was able to give his name, rank, and serial number, though in a monotone mumble.

  “What is the date, Sergeant Chok?”

  “Dun…dunno, sir. Don’t have calendar. Clock.”

  “They do,” the doctor’s voice interrupted. “There’s a calendar in the day room. Clocks in their quarters. They don’t seem to understand them, though staff try.”

  “Yes, we’ve seen the images of their quarters, Doctor. I understand. Not oriented to time, then. Sergeant Chok, do you know where you are?”

  “Where? Can’t see out.”

  “Do you know what kind of facility this is?”

  “Issa jail,” Chok said.

  The committee members looked at one another for a moment. The sergeant major said, “A jail? No, Sergeant, it’s a hospital. Because you’re sick.”

  “No windows. No vids—”

  “Of course there are vids,” the doctor said. “You’ve just forgotten them.” He turned to the other man. “Help me, here. Time to show them how he moves.”

  Chok, released from the straps, made an attempt to stand but needed help. He took a few tottering steps, tried to shake his arm free of the doctor’s firm grip, but then his foot slipped on the floor. Gossin saw a shiny place, as if a smear of grease was left behind.

  “He’s getting agitated,” the doctor said. “Come on, now, Sergeant, let’s get you back in your chair before you fall and hurt yourself.”

  Gossin rubbed her slippers on the footrest of her chair. They were slick, and the floor was polished, gleaming.

  “I’d like to talk to him alone,” the sergeant major said.

  “Now, you know what we were told,” the chairman said.

  “I know what we were told but that man could as easily be drugged as actually demented. I want to see his actual room.”

  “Are you prepared to go through both the entrance and exit decontamination, gown up in one of these suits, and spend at least nine days in quarantine?” asked the doctor. “Because that’s what it will take to allow you closer contact with any of these cases. We’re not going to have you spreading this pathogen—”

  “If it is a pathogen.” The sergeant major was clearly angry.

  Gossin tried to catch her eye, but the sergeant major was focused on Chok, now swaying in his seat as they refastened his restraints. She saw the doctor slip something into the pocket of his yellow suit. Had he already dosed Chok again? And would they dose her again, before it was her turn to be shown off to the committee as a hopeless case? Her stomach roiled, fear and drugs combining.

  The chairman turned to the sergeant major, also clearly angry. Both had their hands over the mike pickups, so Gossin heard only muffled phrases that seemed to be an argument about whether the staff might be lying about the “cases” and whether the sergeant major was risking something—probably being ruled out of order.

  When that was over, the sergeant major was silent, lips compressed, expression grim then fading to blank. Gossin knew that expression well: the defense of the outranked when the senior was wrong but, for the moment, unstoppable. She had used it herself to escape worse trouble. As the chairman picked up another of the folders, and the others shifted in their chairs, the sergeant major looked at Gossin, a long considering look. Gossin looked back, hoping her face conveyed her fear, her concern. She blinked twice, deliberately.

  The sergeant major blinked back, twice. Gossin blinked three times quickly, three times slowly—and twitched as the attendant’s hand clamped on her shoulder. “Are you feeling bad, honey?” came the voice she hated. “Need a little pain med, do you?” And a sharp sting in the back of her neck.

  Her head was already dipping forward but she was almost sure she had managed the last three quick blinks.

  —

  Sergeant Major Sonja Morrison said nothing more during the rest of the presentation. Staff Sergeant Elena Maria Gossin had tried to send her a message. She’d known Gossin before Gossin made staff sergeant, before she herself became sergeant major. Gossin had chosen Spaceforce; Morrison had chosen Surface Warfare, because she’d had her eye on the position she now held, and everyone knew that nobody made sergeant major unless their duties were firmly tied to the planet’s surface.

  And she, Sonja Morrison of Esterance on Fulland, knew that the current Rector of Defense had been equally tied to the planet’s surface, and had actual combat experience in surface warfare. Long ago, and not that far away from Morrison’s own background, in the misnamed war that the schoolbooks had whitewashed. The loose strings left behind still acted as fuses to buried political ordnance. Time to look for a string, and yank it as hard as possible, because sure as stingfish were stingfish, her people—enlisted people were all her people—were being mistreated by someone, and it had better not be the Rector of Defense for some stupid political reason.

  She had seen desperation on Gossin’s face, seen the quick blinking of her eyes, seen the attendant reach out, grab her shoulder, and put a hand to the back of her neck. They were drugged. They were all drugged, and the demonstration was a sham, the whole thing playacting to excuse this—this hideous injustice perpetuated on innocent personnel. She had thought so on the other clinic visits, but now she was sure.

  Her gramma had always said the Vattas were dangerous, but wouldn’t say why. Well, a certain Vatta, or several, would find out that a Morrison could be just a
s dangerous.

  If she made it back to Port Major without being drugged herself. She had pulled on the bland face, so often practiced, that gave nothing away, pinged her implant to regulate heart rate, respirations, the levels of stress hormones in her blood so that her sweat wouldn’t give her away. When the time came for final comments, she acceded to the suggested verdict with a pleasant little smile, allowing her voice to express only sadness that such a tragedy had occurred.

  And after, in the reception prepared for the committee, she ate and drank nothing, while seeming to do so, and entered the same vehicle as the others, who were not in the same danger, she was sure. She hoped.

  Nonetheless, she wished she could have been more active—could have walked past that barrier, talked to her people, found out what had really happened and how bad it was for them now. Her imagination insisted on suggesting how bad it could be for her if she didn’t convince the right people that she was no threat, just a person who cared about her people, which was both true and normal.

  Like the others, she was to co-sign a report to be delivered to the department back in Port Major. She was on the same flight with the rest of the committee. Colonel Nedari invited her to come up to officers’ country, where they could work on the report together and sign it. But—fortunately, she thought—six other officers boarded, and if she accepted, one of them would have to be bumped back to NCO seating. She smiled and shook her head. “Sir, I don’t think that’s appropriate when officers are waiting. Just take it that I’ll sign whatever you have ready for me—send someone back for me, and I’ll come up but not disturb the others.”