Donald Malcolm - The Unknown Shore

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2024-12-24 0 0 331.04KB 141 页 5.9玖币
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The Unknown Shore by
Donald Malcolm
CHAPTER ONE
As he made a final cut with the laser scalpel, Surgeon-Commander
Carlo Rangone noticed the aide to the Commandant of the Casualty
Transfer Station beckoning to him from the door. Rangone's brow
darkened. He brooked no interruptions during operations. However, he
supposed that it must be important. Giving instructions to Donlevy, the
surgeon aiding him, he strode toward the scrubbing room. The aide
followed him into the room and closed the door. Rangone did not like
Templeton, but being tolerant, he did his utmost not to show it. At best,
he was polite to the man.
If Templeton sensed the dislike, he covered it up well. Army training
colleges, such as New Sandhurst, were good at that sort of thing.
"I regret disturbing you at an operation sir, but Commandant Brandt
wishes to see you at once. It's very serious, I'm afraid. He will tell you
about it himself."
"Kindly inform the Commandant that I'll be along in two minutes,
Captain Templeton." He finished scrubbing off and dried his hands.
Hanging up the towel neatly, he shrugged out of his gown as Templeton
left.
Before going to Brandt's office, he looked into the operating theater and
received a thumbs-up signal from his assistant. The case had been a
particularly nasty one. The injured man was a scout pilot, and he'd been
badly shot up off the fourth planet of Canopus. It was a miracle that the
Enemy had left his ship intact enough to let him limp away. Normally,
they showed no mercy.
Fortunately, the wounded scout had been picked up in time and
brought to the Casualty Transfer Station, located on the satellite of a dead
planet. The next move would be to send him to one of the hospitals nearer
to Earth, where he would get regeneration treatment to restore his
missing left limbs. Everything was arranged. The pilot would go out with
some other casualties, all thankful that, for them, the war was over.
Rangone's long stride carried him along the green-tiled corridors. As he
saluted—Brandt liked discipline—he noted the others in the room.
Templeton was there, of course, hovering beside Brandt's desk in a
manner that barely missed being obsequious. Laura McDonald, his strong
right arm, was there too, stiff as her dazzling white starched apron. He
sensed at once the worry in her clear gray eyes and in the set of her mouth.
Templeton was flanked by handsome Marine Major Essenden, the
commander of the station's military force. Better than anyone, he knew
just how token that force was, and the knowledge irked him. Rangone
didn't know for certain, but there had been rumors about his cowardice in
the face of the Enemy during an assault on Canopus One. Normally,
Essenden would have been returned home for court-martial, but the
desperate situation demanded the services of every man. He'd been sent to
the Station, and the man he replaced went to the front. The exchange had
been fatal for the replacement military commander. He'd been killed the
day after his transfer, and that had not endeared Essenden to the rest of
the personnel. Laura, especially, was very hard on him. Essenden's gaze
met Rangone's and slid away.
"I add my apologies to Templeton's for disturbing you during an
operation, Commander," Brandt said, drawing his attention. "However,
the situation is serious in the extreme."
He indicated a message form, the only thing on his desk except for a
communicator, a note-pad, and a pencil.
"We are going to have to evacuate this station."
Rangone knew better than to interrupt, so he let Brandt go on.
"Canopus Four has just fallen and our forces have sustained severe
losses: We'll lose the entire Canopus system, and the Enemy will then be in
a position to execute a pincer movement on this system. As a
non-combatant unit, we have been ordered to get out as soon as possible."
"When are the relief ships coming?"
Brandt's blue eyes regarded him unblinkingly; suddenly the only sound
in the room was the tiny metallic chucklings of the air-conditioning unit.
Rangone felt his heart constrict. As a surgeon, empathy was his business.
"There will be no ships, Commander. We will have to rely on the one we
have. I can see by your expression that the implications of this have not
escaped you. We are here to decide on a course of action. Templeton will
outline the alternatives."
The aide cleared his throat and said, "We have, as Commandant Brandt
told you, only one ship. Fortunately, it's a hospital ship with a full
complement of equipment and refrigeration tanks."
Thank heaven for that, Rangone thought, listening attentively. He was
already ahead of Templeton, but it was just, as well to let the man finish.
Brandt preferred to have things done in an orderly manner. Rangone was
reminded of a story he had read about a shipwreck. The ship's orchestra
continued to play even as the vessel sank beneath the waves. Brandt would
have understood and applauded.
"The capacity of the ship is 75 active personnel. At present we have 194
people at the station, including 65 patients."
All the patients, Rangone knew, were recovering from surgery that
couldn't be delayed until they reached hospital well behind the lines. There
were practically no walking wounded. To all intents and purposes, the
patients were helpless. He knew what Templeton was going to say next
and he didn't like it one bit.
"We have two alternatives. One: a selection can be made and the most
seriously wounded left behind."
"No!"
Brandt glanced disapprovingly at Laura, but he refrained from saying
anything. He knew how much she cared for her patients and made
allowances for that. They were longtime friends as well, but that didn't
enter into matters of discipline.
She looked unwaveringly at Rangone as she spoke, seeking the comfort
and support she would find in his eyes.
"These people have a right to live, no matter how slender the chance is.
They have to be given it."
She, too, had inferred the nature of the second alternative.
Templeton maintained his unruffled calm.
"Two: by using laser surgery, Commander Rangone and his assistant,
Major Donlevy, can remove the arms and legs of some of the patients, the
number to be determined by the Commandant. This will allow the storage
of the living trunks in the refrigeration tanks and enable everyone to be
evacuated. At one of the home hospitals, regeneration can be undertaken
using the serum."
"Commander?"
"I agree with Laura. Everyone has the right to have a chance to live.
There are still hits and misses in the regenerative process. We still get
such results as short arms or legs, hands with no fingers, or five thumbs.
But medical science is progressing daily and I think the chance must be
taken. An improved serum has been in use for some months now and it
has cut down the failure rate. Provided basic clinical conditions are
available, it can be used anywhere, including the battlefront. We can't
abandon anyone to the Enemy—or painlessly dispose of them. May I
suggest, Commandant, that the position be explained to those patients
able to understand."
Brandt shook his head. "I regret, Commander, that immediate action is
imperative. There is no time for discussion. I must make the decision.
This is perhaps the greatest burden of being in command. I can only hope
that I will do the right thing and that they will understand, if anything
goes wrong."
Brandt was right, of course. Ten times a day, he, Rangone, made
decisions affecting individual lives. To cut or not to cut. This was just
another decision, only on a much larger scale.
"I'll begin at once," Rangone said, feeling twice as old as his thirty-eight
years. "Where is the ship?"
"Bay Number One," Templeton replied. "I'll go and check that
everything is in readiness. There was a fault on the conveyor belt from the
departure room to the tanks but it's been repaired. I'll stay in the ship and
supervise the stowing of the patients. You can reach me at Extension
Nine, Commander."
He saluted Brandt, managing to include Rangone in the gesture, picked
up a clipboard, and went out. Rangone found himself admiring the aide, if
not actively liking him. Efficiency was something Rangone understood.
The times immediately ahead were going to be difficult, and he was
relieved to know that he had someone at the ship to rely on. He and
Donlevy would have enough to do in the theater. Laura would also be
extremely valuable in soothing any worried patient; there would certainly
be many for her to handle. He'd have to detail someone to help Templeton
at the ship. He could assign Barbara, the senior nurse.
He and Barbara had been flirting tentatively since his arrival eleven
months previously. He felt himself warming all over as he thought of her
beautiful, dark, slanting eyes, her flawless skin, and superb figure. She was
of old Earth stock, Eurasian, the daughter of a British father and a
Chinese mother. Her home, once called Hong Kong, had reverted to China
over 150 years ago, in 1999. It had been destroyed in an earthquake just
after she was born, 24 years ago. Her family had left Earth for the large
Chinese colony on Vega Seven.
"There is one other thing, Commander, that you have no doubt
considered."
Rangone gave his attention back to Brandt. "Sir?"
"There are 129 people on the station who aren't patients: medical,
military, administration, catering, and welfare personnel. Some of those
people will have to go into refrigeration. Templeton has compiled a list."
He handed a copy to Rangone who scrutinized it. He was about to
comment when Major Essenden said: "The military personnel will have to
be excluded, of course, sir."
Brandt stood to his full height of six feet, two inches, dwarfing the
burlier, but shorter, junior officer.
"You forget yourself, Major. I make the decisions here. You dispute
them at your peril."
Essenden's face went gray, like faded parchment, and he wilted under
Brandt's contempt. The cowardice story could be true. Essenden fell into
silence.
Brandt turned back to the surgeon. "If there's anyone on the list you feel
can help you, please let me know now."
The communicator buzzed and Brandt answered it, while Rangone
checked the list again. When Brandt was finished talking, Rangone
informed him that he needed no one on it.
"Templeton has everything ready at the ship. I'll be here if you want to
discuss anything important. Anything you want done will get top priority."
Rangone saluted and, as he left, he heard Brandt giving the two officers
their instructions. The whole installation would have to be destroyed.
Nothing was to be left for the Enemy. He smiled grimly as he walked along
the corridors. For all anyone knew, the place might be of no use to the
Enemy. No one had ever seen them. They might be 20 feet—or 20 inches
tall.
When he reached his office, he put out a call for Barbara, then went
into the operating theater. Briefly he told Donlevy what was to be done,
and the assistant soon had everything under way. Within minutes, the
first patient was on the table. The anesthetic was given and it acted
quickly. The chart indicated that the man's injuries weren't serious. In any
case, laser surgery was so highly developed that it had no side effects. It
healed as it cut.
He set to work. As he made his skillful incisions, another patient was
wheeled in, and Donlevy took over the first patient when Rangone had
finished his work. Laura had thoughtfully pulled a divider down the center
of the large room, blocking off the operating area. Orderlies waited
unobtrusively in the background, ready first to put the living limbless
trunks into sterilized bags already in position on the conveyor and then to
dispose of the severed limbs.
The first man was finished. Rangone was sweating. Unbidden, a nurse
came forward to wipe his brow. Barbara entered as another patient was
brought in and apologized for the delay in answering his call. He outlined
the situation, and she left to join Templeton at the ship. He wished that he
could have kept her at his side, but that wasn't possible.
He glanced at the wall clock. The satellite had a 13-hour day, but an
arbitrary 24-hour time unit had been adopted. This didn't matter, as
there was nothing on the surface to attract people, although he enjoyed
the magnificent panorama of the planet and the stars. He often visited the
small observation bubble to see it. It was almost 12 noon now. There was
still a long day ahead.
He gave instructions to an orderly to bring sandwiches at 1.15 and
carried on with the surgery. The work was monotonous and
uncomplicated. He didn't allow himself to think about the people whose
limbs he was removing without their permission. What would they feel
when they revived at a hospital behind the lines? That problem would
have to be taken care of when it arose. The patients would have to be kept
under sedation until their limbs were regenerated.
And what of those whose limbs didn't regenerate or failed to regenerate
correctly? Who was going to explain to them? He pushed the thought
away. He had enough to worry about at present. It was times like this that
he wished he had never become a surgeon. Even with the many modern
aids to surgery, his constant gambling with people's lives had a corrosive
effect upon him. After the war, perhaps… But he knew, deep within
himself, that he could never give up medicine, even if it killed him, as it
very well might.
At 1.15 sharp, the refreshments came. He was joined by Donlevy and
Laura McDonald. The two surgeons lounged on a couch, exhausted, and
wondered where they would find the reserves of strength they were going
to need.
"How close do you think the Enemy are?" Donlevy's tone was desultory,
betraying his fatigue.
"Brandt was very careful not to say. He probably doesn't know. They're
almost certain to be closer than we think. They could make the trip from
Canopus Four to here in a few hours, if their ships are as fast as ours. It
depends on how long it takes them to mop up the Canopus system. If they
want to make sure of closing the pincers on this system, they'll secure their
rear first. Still, we might not make it."
He glanced at Laura as he said that.
She smiled slightly to indicate that she appreciated his concern.
"We'll just have to wait and see, won't we? Do you think Essenden will
cause trouble?"
"I hope not, for all our sakes. Dissension at this time will do no one any
good. Brandt can handle him, if necessary. I think Essenden's sense of
discipline will prevail."
"It didn't prevail on Canopus One."
Both men stared at Laura. Her statement had been without malice, but
the undercurrent of hate she bore toward the Major was unmistakable.
"I nursed some of the men who got back from that action. The ones
who were killed were lucky. The survivors suffered the greatest percentage
of regeneration failure on record since the war started 15 years ago. You
heard how he talked to the Commandant in the office. He thinks he can
cover up cowardice by causing trouble. Don't talk to me about discipline."
"We haven't heard his side of the story." Donlevy was attempting to be
fair, although he didn't like the Major, either.
"I've heard all the other sides and that's enough for me."
Rangone was shocked by the venom in her voice. However, it was none
of his concern at the moment. There was work to be done and very little
time in which to do it.
The next few days passed in a blur of work and exhaustion. Rangone
and Donlevy felt more like butchers than surgeons. They kept going by
taking stimulants. If there was an afterwards, then would come the
reckoning. The Navy still had a precarious hold in the Canopus system,
and every hour that they held on increased the margin of safety for the
station personnel.
By the evening of the third day the job was done. There had been some
difficulty with the healthy people who were required to submit to surgery,
but, after Brandt had made it brutally clear what would happen to them if
they elected to stay behind, they had agreed to it. All of them had signed
the official forms of release, although, strictly speaking, the formality
wasn't necessary, as they were already under military jurisdiction. Brandt
liked to let them think they had some share in the decision, however small.
The Navy messages had stopped coming. Why, Brandt didn't know. He
conjectured that it was a protective device on the part of the Navy—or
that the fleet had been annihilated. But this was just speculation; Brandt
simply didn't know. Minutes might count, now. Even as the final
preparations to blow up the installation were carried out by Essenden, the
Enemy might appear and blast them into spacedust.
* * *
THE surface detectors made one last sweep and found nothing. Space
was clear. The huge doors of the bay slid open and the ship was lifted to
the surface of the bleak satellite. Harsh light poured down from the B-type
star. The planet was a faintly glowing disc against the blackness.
The ship rose on its anti-gravs. Its detectors swept space. Still nothing.
When it reached a distance of 100,000 miles from the satellite, the
installation was detonated by radio beam.
After they had travelled a quarter-of-a-million miles, the hooter warned
them that it was one minute to O-space. Sixty seconds. The count had
begun and nothing could slow it down or speed it up. Sixty seconds.
With eighteen seconds to go and the generators practically at full
power, another warning signal, keyed to the detectors, keened throughout
the ship. Something had appeared from behind the bulk of the planet, and
was less than 200,000 miles away, approaching fast from the starboard
side. The Enemy.
CHAPTER TWO
The people aboard the hospital ship waited helplessly. Time seemed
almost to stop and each second seemed like an hour. If they could slip into
O-space before the Enemy fired…
The seconds ticked by like the drumroll before an execution. Six, five,
four, three, two…
The generators operated at peak power, wrenching the ship into
O-space. At the same instant the Enemy missile struck. The effect,
fortunately, was minimized by the stresses of the O-space field, but the
ship was damaged, and the generators were knocked out of phase with the
world lines of the field.
Instead of the calculated jump, the ship bucked like a wild stallion. One
minute it would drive at many times the speed of light, then it would drop
into normal space, then kick back into O-space again. How long the crazy
performance lasted, no one would ever know.
Surgeon-Commander. Rangone awakened with a splitting headache
and a premonition of disaster. In the dim emergency lighting, he stared
around him. No one else stirred. He released the cocoon lever, then braced
himself to get out. His hands felt a hot stickiness. Experience told him
what the substance was. Wiping the blood from his fingers, he freed
himself and stood up a bit groggily. The poor light, flickering as it did,
aggravated his headache. He sat down on the couch until he felt some
strength flowing back into his limbs. There was a crumpled mess on the
floor beside the wall-couch. The wall itself was badly splotched. He bent
down to examine the body that was now obviously beyond help. A tab
glinted. A marine, by the looks of things.
He found his way to Brandt's cocoon, opened it, and tried in vain to
shake the Commandant awake. It would be better, he decided, to get rid of
the body before anyone else woke up. He hoped there was only one. Even
surgeon's stomachs have to give sometime. Perhaps the emergency
lighting was a blessing. He located a locker where disposal bags were
stored. Taking the opaque bag back to the cocoon, he put the body into it
and sealed it up. The man could be identified later, when time allowed.
He checked the rest of the cocoons and found one with its lid torn free.
The bad luck of the draw, he thought. It could have been me—or Barbara
—But she was safer. He knew that the others would wake in their own
time, so he went to examine the rest of the ship.
He went forward to the bridge and activated the external scanners; only
two screens responded and each showed blackness with a few faint stars.
The ship seemed to be drifting, without spin. He tried the radio and the
Mayday signal. Nothing happened. These were problems for the engineers.
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