“Yup. High above millions of hectares of prime sea-bottom real estate. Your handle, ‘Prim.’ What’s that?”
Gray made a face. “Short for Primitive.”
“Don’t like machines, huh?”
Gray glanced back at the sealed cabinet. “No.”
“You’ll get used to it. That was just Medro.”
“Medro?”
“Medical robot. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s great at taking vitals.”
“So long as he doesn’t indulge in taking vital organs.”
Richards laughed, then got a faraway look in his eyes for a moment. “You’re married? We can let your partner know you’re okay.”
“No,” Gray said. The memory burned, and he turned his head away. “Old, old data.”
“You need to update your ID, then.”
“Yeah. I suppose.”
If he could ever figure out how. He’d received the neural-net implants in his brain while he’d been in officer-recruit training, at the same time they’d grown the circuitry in the palms of his hands. Tam had been alive then, still, when he’d filled out the data that would be stored in his personal RAM, to be exchanged with others with the touching of the circuitry in the palms of their hands. He’d never figured out, though, how to change stored data—something the other men and women on board the America seemed to have known from childhood.
And he was too proud—and angry—to ask.
A chime sounded, and Richards said, “Come!”
Another man in combat utilities entered. The rank pips on his wear-stained jacket identified him as a Marine lieutenant. “How’s the patient?”
“Doing well, sir,” Richards replied.
“Outstanding.” The man offered his hand. Again, data flowed across linked circuitry, appearing in a window within Gray’s mind. Marine Lieutenant Charles Lawrence Ostend … “Ostie” … 4th SAR/Recon Group … 1st Marine Expeditionary Force…
“You’re the guy who pulled me out of … that place,” Gray said, his eyes widening.
“Guilty as charged.”
“Then I think I owe you a drink. Thank you.”
“Damned straight you do.” He grinned at Richards. “You get all the bugs off of this guy? I don’t like bugs. …”
“He’s clean.” Richards shrugged. “It’s not like it’s a problem. The local florauna can’t tolerate our atmosphere anyway.”
“?‘Florauna’?” Gray asked. He’d not heard the term before.
“Ate a Boot’s native biology. It has characteristics of both flora and fauna, but isn’t either one, really.”
Ostend made a face. “Damned cockroaches, if you ask me.”
“Not cockroaches,” Richards said patiently. “Not insects. Not even animals. Something different. Alien.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Ostend waved aside the distinction. He slapped Gray on the shoulder. “The important thing, zorchie, is that you’re okay. Right?”
“Yeah …”
Gray wasn’t sure he liked the man’s casual familiarity. Within the curious discrepancy among ranks that had evolved out of the long history of Earth’s various military services, a Navy lieutenant outranked a Marine lieutenant. Gray was actually the equivalent of a Marine captain, one grade above a Marine lieutenant. Richards should have been calling him sir.
On the other hand, Gray had never cared much for the stuffy, pseudo-aristocratic demeanor of the fraternity of naval officers—one of the oldest of the old-boy networks. It was that fraternity—and sorority—that had closed ranks against the poor kid from the Manhattan Ruins and made his life hell for the past three years. Officers and gentlemen was the phrase they used, but it included conceited clots like Lieutenant Howie Spaas and arrogant hypocrites like Lieutenant Jen Collins. So far as Gray was concerned, they could all go to hell, with their “sirs” and “ma’ams” and formal military etiquette and protocol.
Ostend’s informality, Gray decided, made him uncomfortable because it was so out of place, so unexpected. It certainly was better than the usual formality.
As unexpected as General Gorman’s holographic visit a few moments before.
“Any word on the battle yet?” he asked the other officer.
“Confused,” Ostend replied. “I’ve been hearing reports come down the line from CIC, but who’s winning is anybody’s guess. Want my best guess?”
“Sure.”
“We’re kicking their alien ass. The bombardment stopped about the time the carrier battlegroup arrived, and it hasn’t picked up again. That either means we have the bastards on the run, or …”
“Or?”
“Or the Tushies are mopping up what’s left, and don’t really care about us down here at the bottom of our gravity well anymore.”
“Cute, Lieutenant,” Richards said. “Real morale-building.”
“Hey! Any time! Catch you guys later.” Ostend left.
“So … can I go yet?” Gray asked the corpsman. “I kind of want to find out what’s happening with my unit, you know?”
“Mmm … not just yet, sir. We have you scheduled for a psych set.”
“Psych.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not crazy, damn it.”
“No, but you’ve been through severe emotional trauma. Dr. Wilkinson wants to put you through a stress series … and he wants to link you in with Old Liss.”
“Old Liss? What the hell is an ‘Old Liss’?”
“Psy-Cee BA. Psychiatric computer, for battlefield application. We call her Liss for Lisa, the first of her kind.”
“A computer? I don’t want …”
“I’m afraid what you want, Lieutenant, isn’t a very high priority right now. Don’t worry, though. It won’t hurt a bit.”
But Gray had had run-ins with psych computers before.
And he was not at all eager to do it again.
Recovery Craft Blue-Sierra
SAR 161 Lifelines
Battlespace Eta Boötis IV
0104 hours, TFT
Although the news hadn’t yet reached all of the Marines and naval personnel on the surface of the planet, the Battle of Eta Boötis IV was, in fact, over.
Or, to be precise, the active part of the battle was over. The Turusch fleet, what was left of it, was under high acceleration, already close to light speed and still grav-boosting into the Void. The Confederation carrier group had entered planetary orbit, with fighter patrols orbiting in shells farther and farther out, ready in case the enemy tried to pull a reverse and launch a surprise counterstrike. There was also the possibility that not all of the Turusch warships had in fact left. A lurker or two might remain, powered down and apparently dead, waiting for an opportunity to draw easy blood.
But with the probable withdrawal of the Turusch fleet, the battlespace cleanup had begun.
SAR Recovery Craft Blue-Sierra boosted at a modest two thousand gravities, her forward singularity