The Fleet Book Three: Break Through Read online

  Rising to reflect his concern, the hero’s face took on a worried look. Spreading his hands, he intoned how the “soulless Khalia have never shown mercy. Our experts, in fact, have determined there is no such word in their language.”

  THE DISHARMONIC SCREAM of a Klaxon warned the medical crew of the incoming wounded. Chief Healer Amani felt the muscles in his shoulders bunch with tension under his fur, not so much from the blare of the hooter as the knowledge of what was to come. The spoils of this glorious fucking battle.

  “Shut that damned thing off!” Amani said.

  Assistant Healer Vita was stupid enough to try and protest. “Chief Healer, regulations specify—”

  “Stuff regulations into your left nostril! I said, ‘Off!’ ”

  One of the blood-soakers scurried to obey. After a few heartbeats, the obnoxious horn died. Amani regarded Vita with a cool glare. “Captain Damu’s announcement that we have been cheated of the glorious and lucrative victory is certainly sufficient notice that we shall shortly be knee-deep in gore, Assistant. I do not need a mechanical noisemaker’s verification.”

  Vita swallowed and nodded, properly cowed. “Sir.”

  Amani swept his gaze over the surgery, his personal dominance secure. Four assistants and four soakers stood rigid at his outburst, odors nervously high, submissive to his will. The tables were ready, the instruments sterilized, the alien machineries operative—if the poet master could be believed. They were as ready as they would ever be.

  The surgery’s doors popped open, sliding into their wall recesses, as the first stretcher blew in on its cushion of air, two frantic field medics guiding it.

  “How many?” Amani said, his voice snapping like a whip.

  “Fourteen,” the shorter of the two medics said, his breath coming fast from his exertions. The Khalian had sharp, ferretlike features, while his rounder-faced fat partner was easily twice Ferret Face’s weight. Both wore the white kilts and cross straps of their professional clan.

  “Triaged?”

  “There wasn’t time, Chief Healer—”

  “Never mind. Chimsha, stack this one for triage.”

  Even before he finished speaking, other stretchers fanned into the room. The injured Khalian troopers fought the pain, of course, but some moaned in spite of their iron resolve; blood ran freely from shrapnel wounds and decompression injuries; energy burns oozed serum; splintered and broken bones protruded from torn flesh and fur. Death musk fouled the air.

  “Chini, Tumbo, let’s move it!”

  The assistant healers sprang forward and grabbed stretchers. Here was his world, the seeds of battle sprouted and fruitful, the booty of a pirate medic. Amani permitted himself a single sigh, then went to work.

  “Prepare this one for surgery; he’s got a perforated bowel. Start a big bore plasmaloid IV, TKO, crossmatch and type, and lay out a set of deep-lap surgical claws, that’s a fourteen, twelve, ten and needle point, stat!”

  “Pross, Chief—”

  Amani hurried to the next patient. This one’s left leg was shattered but not bleeding much. He could wait. “Pump him full of dorph and put him at the end of the line.”

  Another trooper, this one with his chest caved in. Amani pulled one of the Khalian’s eyelids back and looked at the dilated pupil. The healer flashed his penlight at the eye ... no reaction ... then did the same for the other eye. “Pupils dilated and fixed,” he said. Amani reached forth and pinched the nearest eye. When he removed his grip, the orb stayed pinched. “This one’s dead. Get him to the tubes.”

  Amani moved quickly to another patient, this one with a pumping red cavity in the right upper quadrant of the torso. The wound was easily the size of Amani’s hand. Amani sponged enough blood away to see that the patient’s liver was shattered. Damn! In a proper surgery with the right equipment, he could save him. Here, in the middle of this insane war, there was no chance. He might keep him alive for a little while, but it would cost blood and medicines he could not afford. He hated it, but there was no choice, not if he were to help others.

  “This warrior is beyond help. Pop him with a charge of keph and move him to the outer room.”

  At his shoulder, Vita once again begged to differ. “Chief Healer, why waste painkillers on him? He’s dying—”

  Amani spun; were stares knives, Vita would have been flensed to the bone in a heartbeat. “Yes, he’s dying, Assistant Healer! We can do nothing but ease his pain, and that is little enough! Question me again and you may join him!”

  Vita’s whiskers stiffened at this, and his eyes went wide. There was no doubt who was dominant here, even if the threat was completely idle. “S—s—sir.”

  Amani moved on. Fourteen. They were lucky. Some of the other surgeries closer to the main engagement would have more to do. Much more. And some would have nothing to do, having been roasted by human guns and then exposed to the hard vacuum.

  Was there no way to end this madness?

  Ah, Amani, he thought to himself, no one thinks it madness, save you. Who are you to deny ten thousand seasons of tradition?

  “This one has a ruptured spleen and some internal bleeding. We’ll do a splenectomy and patch him before we do the perforated bowel. Lay out a deep claw and plenty of six and seven oh dissolving suture.”

  He kept moving. Time was of the essence.

  “All right,” Amani said, slipping his right paw into the sterile surgical claws, “what have we got?” He wiggled his digits; his own claws fit snugly into the recesses in the bases of the blades. The knives flashed a blue glare in the brightness of the surgical lamps, lamps designed to kill pathogenic bacteria, assuming the poet master designated to keep such things functioning had said the proper prayers.

  The humans used coherent light for their cutting, as did many of the so-called advanced races, so he had heard, but there was nothing like cold steel for a Khalian surgeon. Amani wore no blades in his chest straps, but he was a master with what he knew. An extension of the paw was the best way; in an emergency, one’s own claws could even be made to do. Try turning your fingers into lasers ...

  “Sir,” Vita said, “a ruptured spleen, a perforated bowel, two amputations, a tendon reattachment, and reduction of two fractures. Assistant Healer Tumbo is debriding burns, and Assistant Healer Chini dealing with shock and assorted minor trauma.”

  Amani nodded. How de-Khalinizing trauma surgery was. The patients were not known by their names, but by their symptoms: a ruptured this; a perforated that.

  On the surgical table, the spleen patient was resisting the anesthetic mask offered by the soaker.

  “T-take it a-away! I will s-s-stand the pain!”

  Amani leaned over the trooper. He was hardly more than a youngling.

  “What is the problem here, trooper?”

  “I am K-khalian!” the trooper managed. “C-c-clan Dihidi of the S-s-outh! I n-need n-nothing for p-p-pain!”

  “You are going to bleed to death in another two minutes if I don’t operate,” Amani said, “and if you twitch at the wrong moment while I am cutting, you will also die. That is the reason for the anesthetic, not to alleviate your pain.”

  “B-b-better to d-d-die than be sh-shamed,” the trooper said. His musk was full of pain, but also of bravery and challenge.

  Amani snorted. Enough of this! “Listen, trooper, I am Chief Healer Amani,” he said, allowing the anger to fill his voice and musk. “Shichini Clan of the West, ranked second in a class of two hundred healers, trained by those who give, and ship’s surgeon for six seasons! You will shut up and accept the mask and you will do it now, is that understood?”

  The trooper looked at Amani through pain-filled eyes. Despite the fact that Amani was only a healer, this was language and commanding odor the soldier could not fail to understand. Impossible as it was, Amani was dominant, and that effectively ended any arguments.

  �
�Y-yessir.”

  Amani nodded at the amazed soaker, who shoved the mask none too gently onto the trooper’s muzzle. Twenty seconds later, the injured Khalian was unconscious.

  Amani extended his augmented forefinger to the trooper’s shaved torso and made the initial incision over the spleen, a bold and sure cut. Skin and flesh parted, and another soaker leaned in to sponge away the welling of blood. This barely named child would argue with him even as he lay dying. Warrior stupidity, always! Lunacy! How could such foolishness be ended?

  His anger did not extend to his hands. The cuts were smooth and precise. The surgeon’s fingers danced, and the glittery steel flashed again and again in the germicidal light, cutting to heal and not kill.

  Eight hours later, he finished the final operation. His shoulders, back, and hands all ached, but the last patient was stapled and stitched back together. He had not lost any of them on the table, and unless infection set in, all would survive. The bactericidal and bacteriostatic herbs that Khalian medicine used were perhaps not as efficient as those more complex chemicals preferred by other-worlders, but he knew his own compendiums of drugs and trusted them. Alien things, even gifts, were not to be trusted.

  Amani stretched his sore muscles. The assistants could watch the patients while he took a few minutes to rest. The gods only knew when another load of wounded might arrive.

  “Greetings, Chief Healer,” came the powerful voice from behind him. The stench of command overrode even that of the injured troopers in the surgery.

  Amani turned. There was no mistaking the speaker. Ship’s Captain Damu stood there, radiating total dominance.

  Almost total dominance.

  “Greetings, Ship Captain,” Amani said.

  “You and your staff have performed well,” the captain said, his voice stiff and patronizing. “You have saved valuable troops.”

  The tension between the two Khalians sang almost audibly. The assistants and soakers found things to do that would move them as far away from the captain and chief healer as possible.

  “Thank you for your praise, Captain.” His own voice was also stiff and formal.

  The two Khalians stood a single body length apart, neither blinking as they fought for dominance. As a soldier and captain, Damu was twice superior, but in this case, it was not apparent. Amani felt the heat within himself, and he knew he should retreat, should blink and look away, should offer the neck and give the slight bow of obeisance. With any other soldier, he could do it, and he had done it before with Damu, but ... it was hard.

  One did not readily bow to one’s own twin brother.

  “I have another patient for you,” Damu said.

  “Fine. I shall attend him.”

  “He is no ordinary patient.”

  “It does not matter.”

  “This patient must be kept alive at all costs. He was onboard the frigate Nasmyth, which was destroyed in the battle.”

  “I shall endeavor to keep him alive as I do all my charges.”

  “Not good enough, Healer. This patient must not die.”

  Amani framed a biting reply to the effrontery of his brother telling him how to do his work, but Damu was not yet finished speaking.

  “As healers go, you are considered one of the best.”

  Amani heard, “As dung goes, you are a fine turd.”

  “Whatever skill you have in your profession must be utilized to the fullest. If this patient dies, you will suffer greatly for it.”

  Before Amani could answer this threat, the surgery’s doors zipped open, and the two field medics, Ferret Face and Fatso, entered with a stretcher. Amani’s quick glance at the patient was enough to still any outburst at his brother’s insult.

  A Fleet human lay upon the stretcher.

  Amani flicked a look at his brother, whose smile now radiated triumph. Off balance, the healer tried to recover. “I am not a veterinarian, Damu—Captain.”

  “It was your choice to be a healer instead of a fighter, Amani. The apes breathe the same air as we do, and they bleed red. This is Fleet Admiral Stone, captured during the battle of Castleton’s World. He deliberately rammed his vessel into the Silver Raptor, destroying it, as well as his own. He was being transported back to home world when the frigate was destroyed. He is an enemy, but he is a brave enemy, though I doubt you can understand that. Your duty is to keep him alive until such time as you are told otherwise. Is that clear?”

  Amani tried to lock his stare onto Damu’s but the strain of surgery and the surprise of a human patient were too much. He glanced away, symbolically offering his neck, as he had so many times before. “I understand my duty, Captain.”

  Damu’s triumph was supreme, the scent of it practically oozed from him like liquid. “Good. That is all I require ... for now.”

  The chief healer watched as Damu turned and marched away. He got you again, didn’t he, Amani? He’ll never let you forget it, not if you should both live to be a thousand seasons. Recall the day when you announced your decision—

  “Chief Healer? What shall we do with the patient?”

  Amani tore himself away from his bad memories. “Put him on the diagnostic table.”

  How in the nine hells was he supposed to take care of an injured human? It had been generations since the givers had trained the first healers. He had never seen a live one, much less treated one. Damn!

  For all his arrogance, Damu was right about one thing. These humans were similar in construction to real people. Physical examination revealed that while the organs were placed somewhat differently, they were close in design and function, as nearly as he could tell. Most of the injuries the man had suffered were straightforward enough. Cuts, contusions, smashed limbs, and most of this damage was old. Amani wondered who had attended the wounds originally. He would give a lot for that healer to be standing here next to him. The human was missing both legs from the hip down, neatly amputated; and only one arm worked, the other having been broken in half a dozen places, orthobonded and encasted in slunglas from the wrist to shoulder. There were fresh cuts on the face and body that Amani methodically sutured. There were no visible signs of internal bleeding, and he had no idea what the normal human hemoglobin or hematocrit was; the only way to check was to use the alien diagnoster, which he did not particularly relish. He did not trust the machine, even though he had learned the operational poetry and thus did not have to rely on the mumbo jumbo of the poet master.

  The poet was an old Orthodox, mostly senile, and Amani had come to believe that the prayers he offered were not nearly so important as the hard-core poetry itself, despite the old Khalian’s dire warnings of the dreaded System Malfunction. The verses for the diagnoster, for instance, were hardly heroic or epic; instead, they were very straightforward doggerel a slack-wit could remember.

  Enough of that. The patient was unconscious, and unable to aid him. And if he died ...

  Reluctantly, Amani called Vita to bring the diagnostic device to him.

  “Begging your pardon, Chief Healer, but I do not trust that thing.”

  Amani was tempted to spare Vita, but he was tired, and it would not do to allow his dominance to fail even if he agreed, which he did. “You are not required to trust it, Assistant Healer, merely to bring it. Without the poet.”

  Again put into his place, Vita scurried to fetch the instrument.

  The machine was mounted on a roller, and once it was in position over the recumbent form of the human, Amani recited the operational poetry to himself.

  Over the patient center the eye,

  push the button next to the sky.

  Amani touched the topmost control on the device. A power hum began, and a bank of red diodes lit up.

  When the lights are all aglow,

  touch the button farthest below.

  Amani thumbed the lowest control tab. The machine’s hum deepened, and
several clicks came from it.

  When the screen asks you the name,

  press the number of the same.

  A holoprojic screen lit up in pale amber, and a list of species names printed out in the air, written in Khalian block letters. Each name was preceded by a single number. Next to the word HUMAN was the number 4. Amani sought the number on the key pad below the screen and pushed it.

  Now the rest is up to me,

  wait a while and you shall see.

  Amani watched tensely as the holoproj ran with a crawl of values from the tests it was performing. In the medical training he had received, in which each movement was repeated over and over and over until it was understood, and could be duplicated perfectly, he had never worked with such a machine before. He knew it was running dozens of tests upon the patient—blood values, deep axial scans, tissue soundings and more—that he could not understand. He did not have the knowledge to fully utilize the diagnoster, but he only needed to know one thing for sure, whether or not the patient was bleeding internally.

  After a moment, Amani found that which he sought upon the three-dimensional screen. Normal blood values for a human, compared to those of the patient. Amani sighed. The patient’s blood volume and density were both within normal limits, given that he was legless and battered.

  Reciting the shut-down procedures to himself, Amani depowered the diagnoster and had Vita remove it. There was little else he could do at this point. The man—Stone, Damu had called him—would live or die. Amani had done all he could figure out to do.

  The human awoke some hours later and, supposedly in flawless Khalian militaryspeak, asked for a drink of water. This was told to the chief healer by the soaker dispatched to awaken Amani from his restless sleep.