by D. M. Pruden
“Get me Chambers online. Recall the others immediately. Seal the airlock and do not allow anyone who is not a member of this crew aboard.”
“We are scheduled to load cargo in eleven hours, six minutes, and thirty—”
“Delay it. Monitor all available cameras and make sure nobody gets near Requiem who isn’t family—er, crew.”
A sleepy-eyed Schmaltz, dressed in t-shirt and boxers, enters the med-bay. “Mel? What the hell is going on? The computer said you told it to wake us.”
“Schmaltzy, we need to seal off the ship.”
“Why?”
I swallow. “Because Willis is aware that we are here, and I think he may come gunning for us.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to register for him. “Are you sure?”
“And there is no telling what he is capable of. I need Requiem locked down once the others return.”
“What is he going to do? Security guards are all over the station.”
“I... Don’t know what he might do. It won’t necessarily be an armed assault. He might try to sneak a bomb onboard or find a way aboard at night and slit some throats. Trust me, we are in danger.”
“Okay, okay, I take you seriously. I’ll see to it. What about the cap’n and Chloe? Aren’t they still at the hospital?”
“Fuck! Maggie, get me the captain immediately. I need to speak to him.”
“He is calling for you, Doctor. I will put him through, now.”
His haggard face appears on the monitor.
“Chambers, we’ve got a problem and—”
“Mel, get over here right now.”
“Why?”
“Chloe’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“What’s going on?”
“She made it through surgery with no complications. She was awake and joking with me, like nothing was wrong. The doctor told us she’s fine, and he would be releasing her in the next few hours. I left to take a whizz. When I got back, alarms were going off and a team of doctors and nurses was working on her. She’s been rushed to the surgery again.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Nobody will tell me what’s going on. You need to be here. I think she’s dying.”
Chapter Nineteen
Out of breath, I arrive at the Phobos Station hospital. The place is small, and I locate Chambers in a waiting room a few minutes later.
When he spots me, he stands, and before I can ask him anything, he reaches out and hugs me tightly. I’m so shocked by his uncharacteristic display of emotion that all I can do is put my arms around his shoulders.
“This is my fault,” he says, voice muffled in my shoulder.
“What? No, it isn’t, Roy. This is all on me.”
“That’s crazy talk, Mel. You were on the ship. You had nothing to do with what happened.”
I push him away and frown at him. “What the fuck are you talking about, Chambers?”
He wipes the wetness from his cheeks. “I should have stayed by her side, then the son-of-a-bitch wouldn’t have gotten near her.”
“Who?”
He shakes his head. “It was him, Mel. It was Willis. It had to be him.”
“Willis! What did he do?”
“I stepped away for two minutes, maybe three, but that was all the time he needed.”
“Roy, I need you to explain to me what happened.” My heart is beating like crazy, and my mind is racing ahead to all kinds of potential scenarios. Chambers is only tearing up a bit. I am the one whose emotional state is precarious. The only reason I appear to be holding my shit together is because my training kicked in, and I can focus on him.
He takes my hands and leads me to the chairs, where we sit, knee to knee. He continues to hold them while he searches for the right words. I humour him, because I know what he will say will knock the wind out of me, and I want to put it off for as long as I can. But I’m kidding myself. After years of giving bad news to families of patients in the emergency ward, I know what is coming is nothing that can be prepared for.
“While I was leaving to go take a piss, I passed a doctor I didn’t recognize going in to check on her. I was gone a couple of minutes, and when I returned, the alarm was going off and a bunch of people were trying to get her heart going. They kicked me out, and then I called you.”
“Is she dead?”
He shakes his head. “No, they told me that they got her heart beating, but she’s unconscious. That’s all I know.”
I try to give him a reassuring smile and squeeze his hands. “Okay, I’ll go and check out what’s going on, but before I do, tell me about the man you saw.”
“Because, like I said, the guy who came in wasn’t one of the medical team I recognized. When I came back, he was not among those working on her. I asked the staff at the desk, and nobody admits knowing the man I described. He doesn’t work at this hospital.”
A chill runs up my spine. “Why do you think Willis is responsible?”
“Well, who the hell else could it be? If it wasn’t him in a disguise, it was someone who works for him. He probably got wind that we were snooping around that tunnel and figured we are after him.”
I decide this is not the time to tell him about the holo-mask.
A doctor approaches us, a data pad in her hand and a practiced expression on her face that I know from experience does not bode well.
“How is she?” Chambers asks before she can introduce herself.
“She is stable but remains unconscious.”
I ask, “What happened to her?”
“You are Doctor Destin?”
“I told her about you, Mel,” Chambers says.
She extends her hand. “I am Doctor Hardy, Miss Cabot’s attending physician. I understand that you are treating her for an anomalous medical nanite infestation?”
“Uh, yes, it is a highly unusual condition she suffers from. She is infected with an aggressive species of nano-machines designed to attack her internal organs if not kept under control. I am researching a way to kill them, but in the interim, she is being treated with a customized nutrient compound that keeps them dormant.”
“I understand. When did you last administer her treatment?”
“She requires an injection every seventy-two hours. Her last one was about fifteen hours ago.”
“That is very strange, because the blood work indicates a nanite species like the one you describe is currently multiplying and overwhelming her system.”
“Impossible,” I say.
She hands me the data pad. “To be honest, Doctor Destin, I’m glad you’re here. This is beyond my experience.”
I read and reread the report. “These numbers don’t make any sense. The growth factor is too high.”
Hardy appears uncomfortable. “Is it advisable to give her another injection of the treatment now?”
I look up from the stream of data on the pad. “What? Yes, of course, I keep one on hand as a precaution.” I remove from my pocket a vial of the compound and hand it to her. “May I see her? I need to monitor her response to this in case I have to adjust the formula.”
I start to follow Hardy when I remember Chambers. “Roy, there is nothing you can do here. You should go back to the ship. I’ll keep you posted.”
His eyes widen with fear. “Oh, my God. Requiem...”
I shake my head and pat his hand. “I recalled everyone and put her on lockdown.”
He relaxes at the news. “Wow, I can’t believe I forgot about her. Yeah, you’re right. I should check her out. Let me know if I can do anything.”
“I’ll contact you if I need something.”
I enter the ward to find Chloe, unconscious and attached to every monitor possible. A breathing tube is in her and her chest rises and falls, accompanied by the steady hiss and click from the respirator pump. Her vitals are frightening.
Doctor Hardy loads the vial contents into a hypo-spray, a normally irresponsible action, given that she knows nothing about what she is ab
out to inject into Chloe. Based on the numbers I read on her chart, if this doesn’t work, she will be dead within the hour, so Hardy is out of options.
As I watch the blood chemistry reaction summary come up in real time on the pad, my heart sinks.
“It doesn’t appear to be working,” says Hardy, looking over my shoulder.
“The multiplication isn’t slowing,” I say. “Something is wrong. The uptake of the treatment compound is inhibited.”
“I’m not all that familiar with the workings of nanite treatments,” she says. “I trained on Mars.”
“It means that their programming is altered.”
Repeatedly, my eyes go over all the data, desperately searching for something I missed.
“We need more time,” I say as tears well up.
“We can slow the patient’s metabolism,” says Hardy.
I shake my head. “That won’t affect the nanites.”
“Are they temperature-sensitive? There is some old cryotherapy equipment here. Would that work?”
I make a quick mental calculation. There isn’t much time. If the nanites are not stopped in the next half hour, Chloe will be dead.
“Theoretically, yes,” I say. My voice sounds like another person speaking from a long distance.
Hardy rushes off to prepare for the equipment to be pulled out of storage. Dumbly, I stare after her. She wants to apply a technique to something so advanced it makes cryotherapy appear medieval by comparison. It’s laughable. But I can offer no better suggestion, so I let her go to find the archaic machinery.
I go to Chloe’s bedside. It is my first chance to look at her. Seeing her pale and unconscious, plugged into every monitoring device in the hospital, breaks my heart. A few hours ago, this vibrant young woman was inspecting firearms like a seasoned space marine. She surprised me with her strength. Hell, an explosion followed by collapsing cavern couldn’t kill her. But now she’s a frail little rag doll taken down by something only visible in an electron microscope.
I don’t know what Willis injected her with, but it switched the nanites inside her into overdrive. I don’t know if it is even possible to halt their out-of-control growth. Every minute that passes may be Chloe’s last. We are in a race for her life, and I am not equipped to run it. I don’t even know where to start looking for answers.
If I had access to a state-of-the-art laboratory staffed by competent nanotechnologists, I might be able to isolate the alteration to their programming. But that would require days, or even weeks; time Chloe doesn’t have.
She is dying, and I can’t save her. Willis may be the one who infected her, but I’m the one who set her up for this.
I’m the one who has killed her.
Chapter Twenty
The cryotherapy equipment exhumed from the basement is ancient. It should be in a museum display instead of being set up in a modern hospital. It dates to the time of the original Mars colonies. Back on Terra, this junk would be at the bottom of a landfill or cannibalized three times over to become parts for somebody’s hover bike or ice maker.
It seems like everyone in the emergency ward was drafted into this operation. I am stunned.
“Where did all of these people come from?” I ask Hardy as a janitor walks past us carrying a piece of antiquated equipment. Following him, two orderlies struggle with a two-metre metal half cylinder that might belong on Requiem’s hull. Behind them, a nurse and a doctor bring another transparent one.
She glances sidelong at me with a hint of a smile, barely concealed. “Everyone here is Martian.”
Seeing the puzzlement on my face, she continues. “You Terrans don’t understand us. Your people no longer share the sense of community a place like Mars requires for survival. When one of us is in need, the community comes together to help. It’s a deeply rooted part of our culture, instilled in us since the first colony communities were founded.”
I shake my head. “But we’re strangers to you. Chloe is from Earth.”
Hardy smiles. “We were all once from there.”
She is smug, but I can’t blame her. Where I come from, everyone is concerned only for themselves. You survive at someone else’s expense or die when they take what you need to live. What I’m witnessing here is alien to me.
“This is a hospital,” she says. “Anyone who enters comes under the care of all of us. It doesn’t matter where she was born, or if she’s even been to Mars before. She is everyone’s responsibility.”
Hardy excuses herself and goes to assist with the setup of some equipment. I watch in mute amazement at the bustle of activity, until out of guilt more than anything, I go to assist two men who are struggling to assemble something with bolts; ironically, something so ancient, even I understand how it works.
When it is assembled, they nod their polite thanks and move on to put together something else that I’m clueless about.
The cryotherapy equipment is like these peoples’ sense of communal obligation: an artifact. I peruse the components and wonder if after this effort, any of it will function. But to my surprise, the Martians seem to be familiar with it. More amazing to me, they manage to get it operating within twenty minutes.
Chloe is gently moved to a transparent cylinder with hoses and wiring passing into it. A dozen canisters of liquid nitrogen are hooked to the machine, and a conga line of technicians continues to bring in more.
Intravenous lines extend from Chloe’s arms and legs to the inner walls of her cryo-chamber. It is sealed, and soon the hum of the machinery fills the room. The transparent half-cylinder that covers her quickly frosts up, obscuring her face.
I try to be inconspicuous when I wipe a tear from my cheek. Chloe will never know the heroic effort made by these strangers. The experience makes a profound impression on me and amplifies the shame that eats at me over my role in her ordeal.
Maybe if I were raised on Mars, I would understand better what I’m seeing. Is this what Chambers means when he speaks of Requiem’s crew being a team? Does he want me to embrace this kind of mentality?
Sure, it works well for the Martians; it’s a necessity, even. I’m sure if, like them, my survival depended on it, I would adapt to the community spirit in a heartbeat.
But what Chambers talks about is not surviving. Our crew already pulls together to ensure no one dies any of a dozen horrible possible ways in space. I stitch them all up and see to their physical and psychological needs. I do my part, and they do theirs. It goes with the job.
Chambers wants something more from me, something I never realized until now, perhaps. I’m still not sure I understand it. Appreciate it, possibly, but it is not ingrained in me like it is for these people. I’m not wired for this degree of codependency. I doubt I ever can be.
And yet I more keenly realize how my way of thinking doomed Chloe. I can’t even follow my natural inclination to deflect the blame for it all on her. She triggered the booby trap that put her in here, but it was something that never should have been allowed to occur.
If I had been honest with everyone right from the start, things would be different. If I had told Chambers about Umbra, or about Owen, or the video footage of Willis, or the three dead Martians, perhaps none of this would be happening. We would have been more cautious. Maybe we would’ve acted more cautiously and simply watched the cargo; just give Umbra what he wants and gotten information about Nancy. We didn’t need to bother chasing after Willis.
“I am such a fool.”
“Doctor?” Hardy rejoined me without my notice.
“Uh, nothing...”
She holds up a tray of filled blood sample vials. “I thought you would need fresh samples.”
“Thank you.”
I accept them out of habit and courtesy. She truly believes turning Chloe into a human Popsicle will make a difference.
The Martians are proud of their frontier heritage. When the first colonies were established, they were isolated. If a person fell critically ill with something that couldn’t be treat
ed here, they died. Eventually, as fortunes were made, wealthy colonists turned to cryotech as an insurance policy for their survival. If they became sick, they just jumped in a freezer and were sent back to Terra, where modern medicine could save their ass.
The problem is not freezing someone. Falling into a crevasse on a glacier can accomplish the same thing. The difficulty arises when you try to revive them. Sure, it’s been done before, sometimes even successfully, meaning that the subject, if they survived, wasn’t usually permanently disabled in some way by the process.
The dismal failure rate of the technique is the reason it was abandoned. It is a flawed, last, desperate effort for survival, and it is all we can do for Chloe. My eyes are glued to the coffin-like cryo-tube. She lies in it like a modern Snow White, except there is no kiss that can save her.
Hardy gently touches my arm. “Nothing more can be done for her. She is being monitored carefully. We will take care of her.”
Her eyes tell me that she means it. Compassion runs deep in this woman.
I avoid her gaze, ashamed that my tears may be for me as much as for Chloe.
After croaking a final thank-you, I slip out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-One
When I arrive at Requiem, I have no recollection of how I got back or any explanation for why it took me eight hours. I vaguely recall the frontages of one or two bars I possibly entered. I don’t remember having anything to drink, but the dry, skanky taste in my mouth and the way the deck sways beneath my feet suggests that I had more than a few.
“Destin,” hollers Chambers. “Where the hell were you?”
“To be perfectly honest, Cap’n, I’ve got no fuckin’ idea.”
“You’re drunk!”
Before I can compose a suitable reply, he seizes my arm and hustles me down the corridor to my quarters. Once inside, he none too gently pushes me onto my bunk before he steps back to survey me, arms crossed over his chest and a dark scowl on his face.
