Chapter 10

Gath had clinic duty the day the apparatus for spiking the water of the Maidu and the Shiloh arrived. There was not much to it. Two hemp boxes, one for each site, barcodes and shipping labels affixed that identified them as having come from Homeport Topside. Each box was little more than half a meter cubed and weighed less than a kilogram. They did not rattle when shaken. A third box arrived as well. It was heavier and oblong shaped, approximately a meter and a half in length but only twenty centimeters square. All three boxes had the words: Deliver to Clinic Medics ONLY! ONLY properly authorized and briefed personnel to open or utilize.

“What now?” asked Gath, who had put his finger on the derm for receipt of the packages. “Should we open them up and take a look? We’re authorized, aren’t we?”

“Not at the moment,” said Weasel, who was looking at the packages nervously. “I was given explicit directions to keep these all in my office until the briefing tonight.”

“What time is the briefing?” Gath asked.

“Immediately after clinic closing,” Weasel told him.

“And who is briefing us?”

“An engineer from the special forces battalion,” Weasel whispered, awe in his voice at the thought of an actual special forces member. “He’s coming all the way from Homeport Ground.”

“And he’s going to be the one who installs these things?” Gath asked.

“That is my understanding,” Weasel said. “The mission will fly at zero-hundred hours local. We provide the overwatch team and the medic.”

“I see,” Gath said pleasantly. “And which medic are we going to provide?”

This was still an unsettled subject. None of the CVS medics felt comfortable installing a medication cartridge into a water supply of a people when they knew nothing about the drug contained within. Weasel had the authority to simply order one of them on the mission, but that too was a gray area. If the medics, in good faith, believed that order to be an illegal one—and there was certainly an argument that could be made for that point of view—it was not only their right to refuse to carry it out but their obligation under more than a millennium of case law.

“I will simply pick one of you if you can’t come to an agreement on this matter,” Weasel threatened. “Someone has to go. You’re excused because of your so-called ‘light duty’, but...”

“You could go, couldn’t you?” Gath asked.

“Me?” he asked, in disbelief. “Go out on a deployment?” He said the word deployment the way other people said gangrenous skin rot.

“Why not?” Gath asked. “Didn’t you recently tell me that you were a fully qualified medic, just like the rest of us?”

“I am, but...”

“And, of course, you keep up with the physical fitness requirements of combat ready personnel, just like the rest of us...” He gave a steady, piercing look at the whiteshirt, who, it was well known, had not been seen running the track in well over a metric year now. “ ... don’t you?”

“Of course, I keep up with PT requirements,” he said, perhaps a bit more protest in his voice than was really warranted. “But I’m the supervising medic. My presence is needed here on the base at all times, so I can handle any circumstance that may arise.”

“Like a group of medics who are considering a declaration of illegal order?” Gath asked.

Weasel groaned and shook his head. “No one is really considering that, are they?”

“No one has said it out loud,” Gath told him. “But you have to admit, as a fellow medic who has gone through the same ethical and legal training the rest of us have, this order is on pretty shaky ground.”

Weasel raised his eyebrows. “Shaky ground?” he asked, confused.

“Sorry, I mean it’s like having unequal maneuvering thrusters,” Gath corrected.

“Ahh,” he said, getting it now. “Well, I can certainly respect how you and the others might feel that way. I suppose there is an argument—albeit a weak one—to be made that full disclosure of the substance in those medication cartridges does need to be made to the medics installing them. On the other hand, however, I believe Doc Voogle covered that quite nicely in her briefing. Higher medical authority than ours has already approved the dosage and administration of this medication. There is no need for us to be briefed on it. We only need install the cartridges and change them on occasion because of a legal technicality.”

“So, you’ll be willing to fly out and install those things?” Gath asked him pointedly.

“I already told you,” Weasel insisted. “I do not go out on deployments.”

“It might come down to a choice between that and it not getting done,” Gath said. “Are you prepared to deal with the ultra-white docs when they ask why no one is following orders over here?”

Weasel did not want to think about this. He made a few more remarks, none the least bit helpful or insightful, and then grabbed the delivery boxes and stormed off to his office.

Taz, who had been sitting at the med tech desk the entire time, shook her head a little as the clinic door slid shut behind him. “You ever wonder,” she contemplated, “what kind of low budget genetic combination service his parents used to put him together? I mean, it must’ve been one of those places that takes promo codes you find in the Firstday news brief advertisements.”

Gath chuckled at her words. “Yeah,” he said, “it is hard to believe he is the result of the best possible sperm and egg combo in the samples submitted.”

“Seriously though,” she said, “do you really think Bong and Zen and Sax are going to declare the order illegal? That would certainly cause some waste converter fouling, wouldn’t it?”

“To use a groundie expression, if I may,” Gath replied, “I think you will see some serious slag rolling up the proverbial hill instead of down if that were to happen.”

She had been intimate with him long enough to quite catch the jest of what he was throwing down. “I guess things are going to get pretty interesting around here soon.”

The day rolled on. It was not a terribly busy one as there were no major deployments scheduled—save the runs to the wells tonight—and the norovirus epidemic, which had been brought back to CVS with the returning deployment marines had petered out.

The disease had indeed rampaged through the battalion of marines that had been deployed to Crescent City, with more than eighty percent showing symptoms and verifiable viral particles in their waste packs before the order to return to their respective bases had gone out. Most of the suffering was slight in nature as the medics of the battalion, alerted by Gath’s findings just before he got wounded, knew to be aggressive in treatment and rehabilitation at first symptoms. Patient zero was never identified positively, but it was discovered that the disease had come from a group of marines out of NOS who had then contaminated the communal latrines and chow lines at the staging area.

From there the disease spread throughout the entire battalion, taking root and incubating in the two days before they actually went to their assignments on the line. Once deployed, the disease manifested in those infected but had a hard time spreading further ... at least not until the deployment ended and the marines returned to their home bases. NOS, who had already gone through one epidemic during the deployment (which is what identified it as the starting point) got the pleasure of rolling through a second one. CVS and SCS, who also supplied marines for the Crescent City deployment, rolled through epidemics of their own as infected marines returned to communal slaggers and, more significantly, roach pits.

At CVS the disease had pretty much burned itself out before Gath had even returned from the hospital at NAWM and resumed clinic duties. The combination of anti-virals and group awareness to go get treatment at the first symptoms—as well as hand hygiene memorandums and other forms of education—made the epidemic about as tolerable and short-lived as it could be. Still, there was a lot of lingering paranoia about the disease. For days after the last verified cases were cured, marines and other personnel kept coming into the clinic whenever they had so much as a slightly loose bowel movement or a couple of gurgles in their stomachs after chow.

This was the first day that not even one of the paranoia cases came in.

One person who did come in was Dizza Yankeur. She did not come in as a patient. Instead, she came to say goodbye to Gath. As she entered the room she had two suitcases and a back pack with her. Her expression was a mixture of sadness and anger.

Yank had indeed been approached and a request made of her to assist in the formation of a plan that would allow the medics to work out how best to infiltrate the birth reduction drug to the Modoc. Gath—who agreed to make the approach as he had a relationship with her—and Weasel had visited her two days before. As expected, she had been appalled at the very suggestion and had wholeheartedly, and with more than a few choice words, refused the request. Gath asked Weasel to avoid reporting her refusal—to stall as long as he could with reports that Yank was ‘working with them’ but no solution had been found as of yet—but Weasel and Yank both refused this one. Weasel because he was Weasel. Yank for a more heartfelt reason.

“I want it on record from the start that I am opposed to all aspects of this plan,” Yank told them firmly. “Let them do what they will to me, I will not lift a finger to help the Fleet poison those beautiful people or anyone else.”

True to her word, Voogle immediately put in an order to reassign Yank to Mars studies and get another cultural anthropologist assigned to the region. And Yank’s appearance in the clinic now indicated it was not an order that got mired in the bureaucracy.

“You’re shipping out already?” Gath asked, as he saw her baggage in hand.

“It seems like they really want me out of here,” she confirmed. “I have a seat on the cargo flight that’s going back to NAWM. From there, I’m on the 1700 to Homeport Ground and the 2100 to Topside. Two days after that, I’m in guest quarters on the Redrun 4 going back to Mars to pick up another load of poisoned food for the homebodies.”

“Whoever wept, Yank, I’m sorry,” Gath said, his sympathy genuine. No matter how annoying and naive she could be, she was firm in her convictions and it was not fair what they were doing to her.

She gave him a weak smile. “What can you do?” she asked. “At least I’ll be able to accompany my new friends from the Crescent City fiasco on their journey. They’ll be going to Mars with me. They are absolutely terrified of every aspect of what lies before them. They haven’t got used to flying in AVTOLs yet but now they’re going to fly into space and to another planet. When we get to Mars I’ll accompany them down to the colony for refugees at Libby and help them get acclimated. I do know more than a few people down there, though I haven’t visited in more than a year now. I’ll get them settled in somewhere and comfortable.”

“It’ll be good for them to have a friend along,” Gath said.

“Yes,” she said, her smile increasing a little. “I guess every ion storm does make for less interior maintenance.”

“That’s what they say,” Gath agreed.

Her smile faded and the hurt expression reappeared. “Still, I’m going to miss working on this planet, working firsthand with the very people I’ve devoted my life to studying.”

“What are you going to do next?” Gath asked. “After you helped your new friends get settled in?”

She sighed. “I suppose I’ll stay in Libby for a while. Most of the refugees we house there are third generation or beyond and have never experienced anything other than oral histories of their ancestors, but there is still work that can be done. I thought about going back to Alpha Zulu system for a sabbatical, but that won’t be happening for at least six cycles.”

“No?” Gath asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s funny. There is no civilian transportation available out of the Sol system for at least that long. Fleet personnel get priority on the seats, you know, and they tell me that they’re undergoing a major shift of forces in and out, so I’ll have to wait.” She shook her head. “I swear to Whoever, it’s like someone wants to keep us all here.”

Gath raised his eyebrows at this. He had heard nothing of a major shift in forces. “You can’t leave the Sol ... even if you want to?” he asked.

She nodded. “That’s what they say,” she confirmed. “I don’t mind much though. I really think of this system as my home, when you come right down to it.”

“I think this is where you belong,” Gath told her. “I’m sorry they’re pushing you out of here, Yank. I know we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I respect you and the work you do. You’re very passionate about it and if there’s anyone who gives these hopeless people a voice, it’s you. Maybe more of us should listen to what that voice says.”

“They’re human beings, Gath,” she said seriously. “Never forget that. And what the Fleet is doing to them is wrong. I believe there will come a reckoning for it one day.” She looked at him pointedly. “Everyone needs to decide what side of that reckoning they are going to be on. I’ve made my choice. Have you made yours?”

With that, they shared one last hug and she left, heading for the hangar building. She left Gath with a considerable plate of food for thought.

Weasel actually managed to make it to the briefing on time. He rolled in with almost three minutes to spare, carrying the boxes that had been delivered earlier. Bong, Sax, Zen, and Gath were already there, sitting around the holo desk when he entered. Their guest for the evening was still not present.

“So... , “ he said nervously, eyeing each of them in turn. “Have we decided on which of you is going to accompany the mission?”

“We have not,” answered Sax, the senior of them.

This did not please Weasel. “I simply must insist that a decision be made on this matter,” he exclaimed.

“Because that keeps you from making a decision yourself?” Gath asked.

“That has nothing to do with it!” Weasel insisted.

“I want to hear what the hume has to say in the briefing,” Zen said. “After that, I’ll be ready to think about deciding what to do.”

“I don’t think he’s going to give us the information that we request,” Gath opined.

“Me either,” agreed Zen. “But I’ll at least hear it out first.”

“I do not want to have to order anyone to participate in this mission,” Weasel told them. “I would prefer it be on a volunteer basis.”

“And I don’t want to carry out what might later be ruled an illegal order,” Bong countered. “That makes me a little leery of volunteering.”

“This does not fall under the heading of illegal orders,” Weasel insisted.

“Oh really?” Bong shot back. “Did you get promoted to federal circuit judge at some point and not tell us? Because as far as I know, that’s the first level that is allowed to decide what does and does not fall under the heading of illegal orders.”

“You don’t have to be a judge to evaluate your orders,” Weasel barked at her.

“What the tork is that supposed to mean?” Bong asked.

Weasel had no answer for her.

“There’s always the option of you carrying it out,” Gath reminded him.

“Supervising medics do not go out on deployments,” he said. “I told you this earlier.”

“What are you scared of, Weasel?” Bong asked him. “Are you scared to actually strap on some armor and go out in the field, or are you scared that it really might be an illegal order?”

“Do not call me Weasel!” he yelled at her, refusing to answer the question.

The door slid open and their guest arrived. He was a male, first career age, but well into that first career, which made him ten to fifteen years older than the medics in the room. He was an unassuming figure, standing at an average height, with a face that was neither striking nor ugly, a skin tone that bespoke of a high ratio of African genes in his ancestry. He was bald and had no facial hair, as was the custom. His body was the trim, muscled fitness of a combat soldier. He wore a marine corps duty shirt with the rank of master sergeant upon it. Below that was the intertwined SF designating the special forces. The insignia on his other breast was the symbol of the engineering corps.

“Hello,” he greeted them, his face unsmiling, his eyes dark and probing, his accent classic spaceborn. “I am master sergeant Tumult, special forces engineering division. You all can call me Toomey, if you like.”

They all greeted him and welcomed him to their clinic, exchanging the standard active military meeting active military without significant rank differentiation shake and bump. Weasel almost drooled at the sight of him, making Gath wonder, not for the first time, if he was actually a nofe—not that there was anything wrong with that.

“I assume you were all briefed on the purpose of tonight’s mission?” asked Tumult once they were all seated and the official meeting was begun.

“The installation of a device into the water supply of two groups of Opies,” Gath said. “The purpose for which is to infiltrate a birth reduction drug into said water supply.”

“I have never heard the term ‘Opies’ before,” Tumult replied, “but yes, it seems you were briefed. The purpose of this briefing is to go over the actual mission itself and our respective roles in it.” He looked at Weasel. “I trust I have an overwatch team assigned? One of at least squad strength?”

“We’re going to send two squads commanded by a staff sergeant out with you,” Weasel told him. “We’ve had some recent issues with the homers known as the Shiloh and their well is just a few hundred meters from the edge of their village.”

“Issues?” Tumult asked.

“They were the group that was making cholera and sending it downstream to enemy homers,” Gath said. “Perhaps you heard about that?”

“Ahh,” Tumult said. “That group. Had to handle them with a rough hand, didn’t you?”

“We chased them out of their village, destroyed their labs, confiscated all of their batteries, and wrecked quite a few of their homes as collateral damage during the mission,” Gath said. “They have reason to dislike us a little more than your average homer.”

“Don’t worry though,” Weasel assured him. “We have extensive deployment experience here at CVS. Two squads will be able to handle anything those homers try to throw at you.”

“We?” said Bong, glaring at Weasel.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m sure two squads of marines will be sufficient,” Tumult said dismissively. “The procedure itself is quite straightforward. It should take me no more than twenty minutes to install the device and, once that is done, no more than two minutes for the medic to install the cartridge.” He looked them over. “Which of you will be joining me on the mission?”

“Uh ... well, we haven’t actually made that decision quite yet,” Weasel told him.

“You haven’t?” Tumult said, without surprise in his voice. “Is there some difficulty in coming to a decision on this matter?”

“No, no, of course not,” Weasel said, shaking his head strenuously. “It’s just that ... well ... you know?”

“It could be that I do know,” Tumult said. “I have been told that in other places where this is taking place tonight in the Homeland, some medics have refused the orders, citing them as illegal.”

“Really?” Bong said. “In how many places?”

“They are in the minority at this point,” Tumult said. “At least that is what the whiteshirts are telling me. If we are dealing with that here, I would like to know now.”

“We haven’t quite decided yet,” Gath told him before Weasel could pipe up. “Why don’t we go through the briefing and then we’ll come up with an answer for you after?”

Tumult looked from face to face, one by one. Finally, he sighed. “As you wish. Just have it known that I know nothing about the drug contained in those cartridges and I will not be able to enlighten you any further on that aspect. I’m just the installation guy.”

“And you have accepted your orders as legitimate and legal?” Bong asked him.

“I have,” he said. “But then, I’m not the one administering the drug. I would not presume to influence your decision in this matter.”

“Fair enough,” said Sax. “Let’s see what you got.”

They saw what he had. He opened up one of the boxes and pulled out the device he intended to install. It was an unassuming device, far from a miracle of engineering skill and technology. It was a simple sleeve that fit over the main water pipe. Attached to the top of it was a housing for the cartridge with the drug. Attached to the side of the housing was a spring and lever system that, Tumult explained, would be mated to the pump handle mechanism the homers used to draw the water from the well. As they pumped the handle to get their water, the same action would pump the cartridge housing, allowing the drug to flow into the water through a small, sealed hole that would be drilled in the pipe.”

“Won’t they see this thing?” asked Weasel.

“They will not,” Tumult replied. “It will be installed below the pump housing, just where the pipe emerges from the ground, inside the well body itself. The homers do not have access to this part of the system and the work we will be doing will look to them like nothing more than the routine maintenance that we do on those wells once a year or so.”

He then picked up the larger of the boxes, the oblong shaped one. He opened it and reached inside, pulling out a piece of black carbon fiber material, rectangular in shape, fifteen centimeters long, four wide, two thick. “This,” he said, hefting it up, “is the cartridge itself.” He handed it to Gath, who sat closest to him.

Gath took it, noting its weight. It was fairly hefty for its size, maybe three hundred grams. There were sealed holes in both the top and the bottom. Other than that, and a tiny stamped part number—0147C259—the cartridge was featureless.

“As you can see,” Tumult explained, “the cartridge inserts into the housing. You put it in, part number down, and the female coupling on the bottom will snap into a corresponding male coupling at the bottom of the housing. That is what will draw the drug out and into the water supply. The top female coupling is for ventilation. You will note it is slightly smaller. It plugs into a corresponding male coupling on the lid of the housing. The part number is just a guide. It is impossible to install the cartridge with incorrect orientation as the male and female couplings will not snap into place and you would not be able to close the lid on the housing. You do not need to worry about front to back orientation as the cartridge will work correctly in either orientation as long as the up and down orientation is correct. Any questions?”

“So ... if the lid closes, we put it in right?” Gath asked.

“Correct,” Tumult said. “There are no electrical parts to this device. It will work as long as the pump itself works and as long as there is drug in the cartridge. The pharmacists and docs who came up with this thing mandate that the cartridge be changed every six local months. They tell me that the cartridges likely have enough drug in them to last for eight local months to a local year, but since there are no exact figures on just how much water any given population of homers draws from their well, the worst-case estimate of six months will be used.

“Changing the cartridges is easy. All you need to do is open the well housing with the access tools your engineering teams have, open the lid, pull out the old cartridge, and put in the new one.”

“What about leakage of the drug when the used cartridge is removed?” asked Zen.

“That will not be a problem,” Tumult assured them. “Once uncoupled, the holes seal permanently closed. A cartridge, once removed, cannot be reinstalled for this reason. It there should be any minute amount of drug substance on the external portion of the removed cartridge, it will remain confined to your gloves and washed away when you perform the post-mission hose down. The used cartridges are to be disposed of in your standard clinic category 4 hazardous waste receptacles.”

“Seems pretty straightforward,” Gath remarked.

“It is straightforward,” Tumult assured him. “Any other questions?”

There were none.

“All right then,” Tumult said, looking them over. “Who, if anyone, is going with me?”

Bong, Sax, and Zen all looked at each other. Then they looked at Weasel, who refused to look back at them. None of them spoke up.

“All right then,” Tumult said with a sigh. “If you’re going to declare an illegal order, I respect that and I won’t try to talk you out of it. I just need to hear you all say it so I can start talking to the whiteshirts.”

“I haven’t been ordered to do anything yet,” said Bong. “Therefore, I haven’t been given an illegal order.”

“Me either,” said Zen.

“Or me,” agreed Sax.

Tumult looked back at Weasel. “Well, supervising medic Cooler,” he said, a definite contemptuous tone in his voice, “it looks like the proverbial ball is in your court. Are you going to order a medic to go?”

Weasel was actually chewing his lip in his tortured indecisiveness. He was saved from a very unexpected direction.

“I’ll go on the mission,” Gath said.

Every head snapped toward him in surprise.

“Are you joking, Gath?” Sax asked him, knowing the groundie had an odd sense of humor.

“No joke,” he said, “I’ll go.”

“But Gath,” Bong protested. “You were the one who has always been the most opposed to all this. Why would you decide to go?”

“I have my reasons,” Gath told her.

“Medic Stoner,” Weasel said. “I hate to look a gift load of hydrogen in the acquisition records, but you can’t go. You’re on light duty, remember? You have not been deemed fit for outside deployment.”

“I’ll be fine, Coolio,” Gath told him. “I’ve been working out, my leg holds me up fine, and we won’t be doing any climbing or marching on this mission. It’ll just be a matter of walking from the AVTOL to the well. And what’s that going to be, Tumult? No more than half a klick, right?”

“Much closer than that if I can help it,” Tumult said. “It’ll be up to the mission commander, of course, but I see no reason why we can’t land right next to the well.”

“But what if the Shiloh decide to make a fight out of it?” asked Bong. “This is the first time we’ll be in contact with them since the cholera incident. We don’t have any idea how they’re going to react.”

“I’m sure that two squads of marines can protect me if that happens,” Gath said. “I was out there in the field in Crescent City. I’m not exactly combat naïve.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tumult told him. “If you’re willing to go and you think you’re physically fit for the mission, I say welcome aboard.”

“I’m sorry,” Weasel said, strenuously shaking his head. “I simply cannot allow a medic who is listed as unfit for deployment to go out on one. I cannot!”

Gath looked at him. “So, you’ll go in my place?”

“Uh ... well ... uh ... I didn’t say that,” Weasel stammered. “I’m simply pointing out that...

Gath turned to the other three medics. “Are any of you volunteering for this mission?” he asked them.

“Volunteering?” Bong asked. “No.”

Sax and Zen both shook their heads as well.

Gath turned back to Weasel. “Coolio, are you volunteering to go on this mission?”

“I do not go out on missions,” he repeated.

“Well, I am volunteering,” Gath told him. “Now you can let me go despite my status, or you can order one of the others to go and risk having them refuse under the illegal orders doctrine, or you can go yourself. Those are the choices. The decision is in your hands.”

Weasel chewed his lip again. It looked like it would start to bleed soon. His eyes flitted from face to face. Everyone was staring at him expectantly. Finally, he turned to Gath. “Are you sure you can complete this mission in your present condition?” he asked him.

“Piece of cake,” Gath assured him.

“Cake?” Weasel asked, confused at this seeming non-sequitur. “What does cake have to do with anything?”

“It means delta V on the line,” Gath told him, translating to the spaceborn analogy. “I can do this.”

Another couple of lip chews, a few scratches of the head, and a nervous twisting of the hands. At last, Weasel made a decision. “All right,” he told Gath. “You can go.”

“Demonic,” Gath said, a strange smile on his face.

“So, it’s settled then?” asked Tumult.

“It’s settled,” Gath replied, before any other objections could be raised. Bong looked like she actually might want to raise some, but she kept her peace for now.

“All right then,” Tumult said, standing. “Meet me in the hangar at 2330 local for final mission brief, Stoner. If all goes well we’ll be back by O300 with both units installed and operating.”

“I can’t wait,” Gath assured him. “I’ve got myself a brand-new suit of armor and a brand-new medic pack I’ve just been dying to try out.”