Jack Campbell - Imperfect Sword

“There are a lot of holes in the Syndicate security perimeter these days,” Drakon said. “Holes that families can slip through. And a lot of room in the star systems around here.”

One of the women on watch on the bridge, a senior executive whose expression seemed fixed in a state of sullen unhappiness, looked at Drakon with a spark of hope in her eyes. “I’ve heard of Kane. How is Kane?”

“It has a good planet,” Drakon said, “and a lot of room.” He took a deep breath. “Especially since the Syndicate bombarded it. Most of those who lived there are dead. Most of what had been built there is ruin. But the planet remains good, and Kane needs those willing to help rebuild it.”

“But if the Syndicate comes back—”

Drakon shook his head. “Did you see the Syndicate battleship that was in this star system? The one that was destroyed? It was that warship, and the CEO commanding it, who bombarded Kane. Neither that warship nor that CEO will be bombarding any more planets.”

“Who are you people?” Mack asked. “The snakes told us you were just rebellious CEOs out for yourselves. I’ve seen enough and heard enough to know you’re not that, but I’m still trying to figure out what you are.”

“We are the people who are going to stand up to and stop the Syndicate,” Drakon said. “Just as we did here.” He took a last look at the planet. “I’ll be in sick bay.”

An HTTU had pretty decent medical facilities. Nothing to equal those on a battleship or a well-equipped ground facility, but adequate for dealing with casualties among the ground forces the ship had brought to the battlefield. Drakon reached the entrance to the first of the medical bays and stopped, looking into the brightly lit compartment where rows of bunks were topped by long, rounded devices resembling ancient mummy cases. Many of the cases were open at the top end, showing the faces of men or women relaxed in deep sleep. Other cases were completely sealed, only the steady green readouts on them betraying the presence of the badly injured soldiers confined within.

Two medical personnel were seated on opposite sides of a desk talking in low voices to each other. One noticed Drakon and both stood up, their movements betraying fatigue.

“How is everything?” Drakon asked.

“No problems that aren’t being fixed,” a woman with weary eyes told him. He recognized her as belonging to the medical team attached to Kai’s brigade. “They’re all in rec sleep, General,” she added, using the common term for a deep form of sedation that hastened healing.

“Thank you, Doc. I know medical hasn’t had much chance to rest.” Drakon looked at the man with her. “I don’t know you.”

He nodded nervously before answering. “Worker Gundar Castillon, Medical Specialist, Field Treatment, uh…” The man faltered as he realized that he couldn’t recite a work-unit assignment.

Drakon smiled reassuringly. At least, he hoped it was a reassuring smile. He had been told that when he was really tired, his attempts at reassurance could look a little demonic. “A medic. Were you with the Syndicate division?”

“Yes, honored—I mean, yes, sir.”

“We want him in our med team, General,” the doctor said. “He pitched right in on the surface. Just started doing everything he could because he was there and saw some soldiers who needed help.”

“I don’t see why he can’t be part of your med team, then,” Drakon said, gesturing toward the chairs the two had vacated. “Sit down.” They took their seats again, the doctor gratefully and the new medic a bit stiffly, as if expecting Drakon to yank him back to attention at any moment. “Consider the unit assignment approved. How much longer have you got on duty?”

The doctor yawned. “Thank you, General. Another hour, sir. Then eight off.”

“Good.” Drakon leaned against the nearest bulkhead, wanting to sit down as well but afraid he would have too much trouble getting up again if he did. He looked down the rows of sleeping soldiers again. “You guys do miracles.”

The doctor quirked a smile. “General, if I could do miracles, I’d be about forty light-years from here in a soft bed with someone to keep me warm.”

“Would you? Or would you be where you were needed?”

“That’s not a fair question, General,” the doctor protested. She rubbed her eyes with one hand. “I admit it’s going to be nice to rest for a while. This was a rough one.”

“They’re all rough ones for the ones who get hit,” Drakon said. “Thanks for fixing up all the soldiers that can be saved.”

“You know, General, if you didn’t break them in the first place, we wouldn’t have to try to fix them.”

The new medic looked horrified, as if expecting Drakon to shoot the doctor on the spot.

But he nodded to her. “If I knew a way to never break another, I’d use it. But life isn’t that simple.”

“No,” the doctor agreed. “I guess not. Sometimes I wonder why I keep trying, though.” She waved one hand to indicate the rows of bunks. “I fix them, they go out, sometimes they come back, sometimes their next hurt is so bad nothing can save them. It’s like shoveling sand. We break our backs to save them, but how much difference do we really make?”

Drakon met her eyes. “Let me tell you something I sometimes wonder. I sometimes wonder about the human race, about our seemingly limitless capacity to inflict death and destruction on each other. I wonder if there’s any reason to keep trying to make anything better, to try to save anything, when someone else is just going to come along and kick over whatever I built.”

He nodded again, this time toward the sleeping wounded. “But then I see people like you, giving their all to save others. The medics, like you, Specialist Castillon, braving enemy fire to do all they can for someone who got hit. And it makes me realize that the human race has some good in it. That there are people who work at least as hard to save others as some other people work to destroy. That’s why I keep trying.”

The doctor smiled tiredly. “You’re welcome.”

Drakon looked at the medic. “Are you all taken care of? A place to sleep, eating arrangements set up?”

“Not yet, General,” the medic said.

“If you run into any trouble,” Drakon said, “have your team leader”—he pointed at the doctor—“contact me about it.”

The doctor smiled again, watching Drakon closely. “If you don’t mind my saying so, General, I’m diagnosing you as being almost as tired as I am. You’re sort of wavering on your feet even though you’re leaning on that wall.”

“You don’t have to prescribe bed rest,” Drakon said. “I’m on my way.” He straightened, looking at the injured soldiers again, thinking of those who hadn’t made it this far. “Why can’t we save them all? Couldn’t we replace anything they needed?”

“Up to a point,” the doctor said. “A few centuries back, they started running into something odd.” She sighed, her eyes closing as if she didn’t want to look upon history. “Medical science had progressed to the point where we could replace anything as it failed with some sort of device. Cloned parts worked fine. But stuff we made, artificial parts, started causing problems if they made up too much of a person. We can build a cyborg, but they’re unstable, especially if we’ve built them from someone who got blown apart in combat and put back together. There are lots of theories, most of them built around the idea that the artificial parts create some cumulative impact on the nervous system, so once you pass a certain threshold, a certain percentage of the body that was built instead of grown, the cyborg becomes untreatably psychotic and either goes into a coma or goes berserk.”