Элизабет Мун - Into the Fire

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!”