Peace and War

  And the only reason, I said, they don't do it is that they think you'll kill better without it. That's logic.

  Speaking of logic, the original question was, why do they send a logistic computer to do a man's job? Or something like that … and we were off again.

  The light blinked green and I chinned the switch automatically. The pressure was down to 1.3 before I realized that it meant we were alive, we had won the first skirmish.

  I was only partly right.

  4

  I was belting on my tunic when my ring tingled and I held it up to listen. It was Rogers.

  'Mandella, go check squad bay 3. Something went wrong; Dalton had to depressurize it from Control.'

  Bay 3 – that was Marygay's squad! I rushed down the corridor in bare feet and got there just as they opened the door from inside the pressure chamber and began straggling out.

  The first out was Bergman. I grabbed his arm. 'What the hell is going on, Bergman?'

  'Huh?' He peered at me, still dazed, as everyone is when they come out of the chamber. 'Oh, s'you, Mandella. I dunno. Whad'ya mean?'

  I squinted in through the door, still holding on to him. 'You were late, man, you depressurized late. What happened?'

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. 'Late? Whad' late. Uh, how late?'

  I looked at my watch for the first time. 'Not too – ' Jesus Christ. 'Uh, we zipped in at 0520, didn't we?'

  'Yeah, I think that's it.'

  Still no Marygay among the dim figures picking their way through the ranked couches and jumbled tubing. 'Um, you were only a couple of minutes late … but we were only supposed to be under for four hours, maybe less. It's 1050.'

  'Um.' He shook his head again. I let go of him and stood back to let Stiller and Demy through the door.

  'Everybody's late, then,' Bergman said. 'So we aren't in any trouble.'

  'Uh – ' Non sequiturs. 'Right, right – Hey, Stiller! You seen–'

  From inside: 'Medic! MEDIC!'

  Somebody who wasn't Marygay was coming out. I pushed her roughly out of my way and dove through the door, landed on somebody else and clambered over to where Struve, Marygay's assistant, was standing over a pod and talking very loud and fast into his ring.

  '–and blood God yes we need–'

  It was Marygay still lying in her suit she was '

  –got the word from Dalton–'

  covered every square inch of her with a uniform bright sheen of blood

  '–when she didn't come out–'

  it started as an angry welt up by her collarbone and was just a welt as it traveled between her breasts until it passed the sternum's support

  '–I came over and popped the–'

  and opened up into a cut that got deeper as it ran down over her belly and where it stopped

  '–yeah, she's still–'

  a few centimeters above the pubis a membraned loop of gut was protruding

  '–OK, left hip. Mandella–'

  She was still alive, her heart palpitating, but her blood-streaked head lolled limply, eyes rolled back to white slits, bubbles of red froth appearing and popping at the corner of her mouth each time she exhaled shallowly.

  '–tattooed on her left hip. Mandella! Snap out of it! Reach under her and find out what her blood–'

  'TYPE O RH NEGATIVE GOD damn … it. Sorry – Oh negative.' Hadn't I seen that tattoo ten thousand times?

  Struve passed this information on and I suddenly remembered the first-aid kit on my belt, snapped it off and fumbled through it.

  Stop the bleeding – protect the wound – treat for shock, that's what the book said. Forgot one, forgot one … clear air passages.

  She was breathing, if that's what they meant. How do you stop the bleeding or protect the wound with one measly pressure bandage when the wound is nearly a meter long? Treat for shock, that I could do. I fished out the green ampoule, laid it against her arm and pushed the button. Then I laid the sterile side of the bandage gently on top of the exposed intestine and passed the elastic strip under the small of her back, adjusted it for nearly zero tension and fastened it.

  'Anything else you can do?' Struve asked.

  I stood back and felt helpless. 'I don't know. Can you think of anything?'

  'I'm no more of a medic than you are.' Looking up at the door, he kneaded a fist, biceps straining. 'Where the hell are they? You have morph-plex in that kit?'

  'Yeah, but somebody told me not to use it for internal–'

  'William?'

  Her eyes were open and she was trying to lift her head. I rushed over and held her. 'It'll be all right, Marygay. The medic's coming.'

  'What … all right? I'm thirsty. Water.'

  'No, honey, you can't have any water. Not for a while, anyhow.' Not if she was headed for surgery.

  'Why is all the blood?' she said in a small voice. Her head rolled back. 'Been a bad girl.'

  'It must have been the suit,' I said rapidly. 'Remember earlier, the creases?'

  She shook her head. 'Suit?' She turned suddenly paler and retched weakly. 'Water … William, please.'

  Authoritative voice behind me: 'Get a sponge or a cloth soaked in water.' I looked around the saw Doc Wilson with two stretcher bearers.

  'First half-liter femoral,' he said to no one in particular as he carefully peeked under the pressure bandage. 'Follow that relief tube down a couple of meters and pinch it off. Find out if she's passed any blood.'

  One of the medics ran a ten-centimeter needle into Marygay's thigh and started giving her whole blood from a plastic bag.

  'Sorry I'm late,' Doc Wilson said tiredly. 'Business is booming. What'd you say about the suit?'

  'She had two minor injuries before. Suit doesn't fit quite right, creases up under pressure.'

  He nodded absently, checking her blood pressure. 'You, anybody, give–' Somebody handed him a paper towel dripping water. 'Uh, give her any medication?'

  'One ampoule of No-shock.'

  He wadded the paper towel up loosely and put it in Marygay's hand. 'What's her name?' I told him.

  'Marygay, we can't give you a drink of water but you can suck on this. Now I'm going to shine a bright light in your eye.' While he was looking through her pupil with a metal tube, he said, 'Temperature?' and one of the medics read a number from a digital readout box and withdrew a probe. 'Passed blood?'

  'Yes. Some.'

  He put his hand lightly on the pressure bandage. 'Marygay, can you roll over a little on your right side?'

  'Yes,' she said slowly, and put her elbow down for leverage. 'No,' she said and started crying.

  'Now, now,' he said absently and pushed up on her hip just enough to be able to see her back. 'Only the one wound,' he muttered. 'Hell of a lot of blood.'

  He pressed the side of his ring twice and shook it by his ear. 'Anybody up in the shop?'

  'Harrison, unless he's on a call.'

  A woman walked up, and at first I didn't recognize her, pale and disheveled, bloodstained tunic. It was Estelle Harmony.

  Doc Wilson looked up. 'Any new customers, Doctor Harmony?'

  'No,' she said dully. 'The maintenance man was a double traumatic amputation. Only lived a few minutes. We're keeping him running for transplants.'

  'All those others?'

  'Explosive decompression.' She sniffed. 'Anything I can do here?'

  'Yeah, just a minute.' He tried his ring again. 'God damn it. You don't know where Harrison is?'

  'No … well, maybe, he might be in Surgery B if there was trouble with the cadaver maintenance. Think I set it up all right, though.'

  'Yeah, well, hell you know how…'

  'Mark!' said the medic with the blood bag.

  'One more half-liter femoral,' Doc Wilson said. 'Estelle, you mind taking over for one of the medics here, prepare this gal for surgery?'

  'No, keep me busy.'

  'Good – Hopkins, go up to the shop and bring down a roller and a liter, uh, two liters isotonic fluorocarb with the primary s
pectrum. If they're Merck they'll say "abdominal spectrum."' He found a part of his sleeve with no blood on it and wiped his forehead. 'If you find Harrison, send him over to surgery A and have him set up the anesthetic sequence for abdominal.'

  'And bring her up to A?'

  'Right. If you can't find Harrison, get somebody–' he stabbed a finger in my direction, '–this guy, to roll the patient up to A; you run ahead and start the sequence.'

  He picked up his bag and looked through it. 'We could start the sequence here,' he muttered. 'But hell, not with paramethadone – Marygay? How do you feel?'

  She was still crying. 'I'm … hurt.'

  'I know,' he said gently. He thought for a second and said to Estelle, 'No way to tell really how much blood she lost. She may have been passing it under pressure. Also there's some pooling in the abdominal cavity. Since she's still alive I don't think she could've bled under pressure for very long. Hope no brain damage yet.'

  He touched the digital readout attached to Marygay's arm. 'Monitor the blood pressure, and if you think it's indicated, give her five cc's vasoconstrictor. I've gotta go scrub down.'

  He closed his bag. 'You have any vasoconstrictor besides the pneumatic ampoule?'

  Estelle checked her own bag. 'No, just the emergency pneumatic … uh … yes, I've got controlled dosage on the 'dilator, though.'

  'OK, if you have to use the 'constrictor and her pressure goes up too fast–'

  'I'll give her vasodilator two cc's at a time.'

  'Check. Hell of a way to run things, but … well. If you're not too tired, I'd like you to stand by me upstairs.'

  'Sure.' Doc Wilson nodded and left.

  Estelle began sponging Marygay's belly with isopropyl alcohol. It smelled cold and clean. 'Somebody gave her No-shock?'

  'Yes,' I said, 'about ten minutes ago.'

  'Ah. That's why the Doc was worried – no, you did the right thing. But No-shock's got some vasoconstrictor. Five cc's more might run up an overdose.' She continued silently scrubbing, her eyes coming up every few seconds to check the blood pressure monitor.

  'William?' It was the first time she'd shown any sign of knowing me. 'This wom–, uh, Marygay, she's your lover? Your regular lover?'

  'That's right.'

  'She's very pretty.' A remarkable observation, her body torn and caked with crusting blood, her face smeared where I had tried to wipe away the tears. I suppose a doctor or a woman or a lover can look beneath that and see beauty.

  'Yes, she is.' She had stopped crying and had her eyes squeezed shut, sucking the last bit of moisture from the paper wad.

  'Can she have some more water?'

  'OK, same as before. Not too much.'

  I went out to the locker alcove and into the head for a paper towel. Now that the fumes from the pressurizing fluid had cleared, I could smell the air. It smelled wrong. Light machine oil and burnt metal, like the smell of a metal-working shop. I wondered whether they had overloaded the airco. That had happened once before, after the first time we'd used the acceleration chambers.

  Marygay took the water without opening her eyes.

  'Do you plan to stay together when you get back to Earth?'

  'Probably,' I said. 'If we get back to Earth. Still one more battle.' 'There won't be any more battles,' she said flatly. 'You mean you haven't heard?'

  'What?'

  'Don't you know the ship was hit?'

  'Hit!' Then how could any of us be alive?

  'That's right.' She went back to her scrubbing. 'Four squad bays. Also the armor bay. There isn't a fighting suit left on the ship … and we can't fight in our underwear.'

  'What – squad bays, what happened to the people?'

  'No survivors.'

  Thirty people. 'Who was it?'

  'All of the third platoon. First squad of the second platoon.' Al-Sadat, Busia, Maxwell, Negulesco. 'My God.'

  'Thirty deaders, and they don't have the slightest notion of what caused it. Don't know but that it may happen again any minute.'

  'It wasn't a drone?'

  'No, we got all of their drones. Got the enemy vessel, too. Nothing showed up on any of the sensors, just blam! and a third of the ship was torn to hell. We were lucky it wasn't the drive or the life-support system.' I was hardly hearing her. Penworth, LaBatt, Smithers. Christine and Frida. All dead. I was numb.

  She took a blade-type razor and a tube of gel out of her bag. 'Be a gentleman and look the other way,' she said. 'Oh, here.' She soaked a square of gauze in alcohol and handed it to me. 'Be useful. Do her face.'

  I started and, without opening her eyes, Marygay said, 'That feels good. What are you doing?'

  'Being a gentleman. And useful, too–'

  'All personnel, attention, all personnel.' There wasn't a squawk-box in the pressure chamber, but I could hear it clearly through the door to the locker alcove. 'All personnel echelon 6 and above, unless directly involved in medical or maintenance emergencies, report immediately to the assembly area.'

  'I've got to go, Marygay.'

  She didn't say anything. I didn't know whether she had heard the announcement.

  'Estelle,' I addressed her directly, gentleman be damned. 'Will you–'

  'Yes. I'll let you know as soon as we can tell.'

  'Well.'

  'It's going to be all right.' But her expression was grim and worried. Now get going,' she said, softly.

  By the time I picked my way out into the corridor, the 'box was repeating the message for the fourth time. There was a new smell in the air, that I didn't want to identify.

  5

  Halfway to the assembly area I realized what a mess I was, and ducked into the head by the NCO lounge. Corporal Kamehameha was hurriedly brushing her hair.

  'William! What happened to you?'

  'Nothing.' I turned on a tap and looked at myself in the mirror. Dried blood smeared all over my face and tunic. It was Marygay, Corporal Potter, her suit … well, evidently it got a crease, uh…'

  'Dead?'

  'No, just badly, uh, she's going into surgery–'

  'Don't use hot water. You'll just set the stain.'

  'Oh. Right.' I used the hot to wash my face and hand, dabbed at the tunic with cold. 'Your squad's just two bays down from Al's, isn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you see what happened?'

  'No. Yes. Not when it happened.' For the first time I noticed that she was crying, big tears rolling down her cheeks and off her chin. Her voice was even, controlled. She pulled at her hair savagely. 'It's a mess.'

  I stepped over and put my hand on her shoulder. 'DON't touch me!' she flared and knocked my hand off with the brush. 'Sorry. Let's go.'

  At the door to the head she touched me lightly on the arm. 'William…' She looked at me defiantly. 'I'm just glad it wasn't me. You understand? That's the only way you can look at it.'

  I understood, but I didn't know that I believed her.

  'I can sum it up very briefly,' the commodore said in a tight voice, 'if only because we know so little.

  'Some ten seconds after we destroyed the enemy vessel, two objects, very small objects, struck the Anniversary amidships. By inference, since they were not detected and we know the limits of our detection apparatus, we know that they were moving in excess of nine-tenths of the speed of light. That is to say, more precisely, their velocity vector normal to the axis of the Anniversary was greater than nine-tenths of the speed of light. They slipped in behind the repeller fields.'

  When the Anniversary is moving at relativistic speeds, it is designed to generate two powerful electromagnetic fields, one centered about five thousand kilometers from the ship and the other about ten thousand klicks away, both in line with the direction of motion of the ship. These fields are maintained by a 'ramjet' effect, energy picked up from interstellar gas as we mosey along.

  Anything big enough to worry about hitting (that is, anything big enough to see with a strong magnifying glass) goes through the first field and comes out with
a very strong negative charge all over its surface. As it enters the second field, it's repelled away from the path of the ship. If the object is too big to be pushed around this way, we can sense it at a greater distance and maneuver out of its way.

  'I shouldn't have to emphasize how formidable a weapon this is. When the Anniversary was struck, our rate of speed with respect to the enemy was such that we traveled our own length every ten-thousandth of a second. Further, we were jerking around erratically with a constantly changing and purely random lateral acceleration. Thus the objects that struck us must have been guided, not aimed. And the guidance system was self-contained, since there were no Taurans alive at the time they struck us. All of this in a package no larger than a small pebble.

  'Most of you are too young to remember the term future shock. Back in the seventies, some people felt that technological progress was so rapid that people, normal people, couldn't cope with it; that they wouldn't have time to get used to the present before the future was upon them. A man named Toffler coined the term future shock to describe this situation.' The commodore could get pretty academic.

  'We're caught up in a physical situation that resembles this scholarly concept. The result has been disaster. Tragedy. And, as we discussed in our last meeting, there is no way to counter it. Relativity traps us in the enemy's past; relativity brings them from our future. We can only hope that next time, the situation will be reversed. And all we can do to help bring that about is try to get back to Stargate, and then to Earth, where specialists may be able to deduce something, some sort of counterweapon, from the nature of the damage.

  'Now we could attack the Tauran's portal planet from space and perhaps destroy the base without using you infantry. But I think there would be a very great risk involved. We might be … shot down by whatever hit us today, and never return to Stargate with what I consider to be vital information. We could send a drone with a message detailing our assumptions about this new enemy weapon … but that might be inadequate. And the Force would be that much further behind, technologically.

  'Accordingly, we have set a course that will take us around Yod-4, keeping the collapsar as much as possible between us and the Tauran base. We will avoid contact with the enemy and return to Stargate as quickly as possible.'