Si Vis Pacem Page 26

  When I’ve finished doing his front, I have to stifle a sigh of relief.

  “That’s this side done. Roll over.”

  “What’s the magic word?”

  “If you don’t roll over, you can’t go out to play.”

  He shoots me that half-grin of his. “Good point, well made.”

  Turning over in the bath is clearly a struggle for him, but I leave him to it. I’m sure he prefers it this way.

  When he settles down, I realize that I’m staring at a naked man’s ass. It’s a fine ass, too. It sticks out over the gloop, rock-hard and perfectly semicircular. His entire back is pretty yummy, as far as I’m concerned: under the patterning of grafts and scabs the dude is pure muscle. He’s a bit on the scrawny side, but that could be due the fact that he got cremated and stuck in a tank for a while. I wonder what he looked like before.

  He turns around with a frown. “Problem?”

  “Nah. Just getting the gloop ready.”

  “No rush. Don’t mind me. I’ve not got anything pressing to do.”

  When I start to coat his ass, he flinches. I can see the ripples travel all the way up his back.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No. It tickles.”

  I get done with the best bit as fast as I can and cover it up, even though I wish I could stare at it for another couple of hours. I also wish I could go and head-butt a wall for five minutes just to get my brain back into working mode, but that would look a bit unprofessional.

  A knock at the door makes both of us jump.

  He turns to look at me. “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can’t be the medics. They just barge in.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So, do you want to see who it is?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes. This is your room. Aside from medical staff, you decide who comes in.”

  “Well, shit. Clearly I moved up in the world. Yeah. Please. Can you see who it is, at least?”

  When I go to open the door, Reggie is standing in the hallway, looking as funereal as ever.

  “Holy shit. Reg? You’re still here?” sputters McGee.

  “More so than ever before,” sighs Reggie. “Nice to see you. Wish I was seeing you under different circumstances.”

  “Ditto. You wanna come in?

  Reggie gestures in my direction. “You look busy. I’ll come back later.”

  “Busy isn’t the word for it. The gruesome bits are done and you don’t have to watch. I could take some distracting, frankly. This has stopped being fun days ago.”

  Reggie looks at me. “If it’s OK with cadet Pax.”

  McGee snaps. “For the love of all that is holy, just get your ass in here. When did you get this formal?”

  “About eight hours ago.”

  “What?”

  Reggie rubs the bridge of his nose. “Don’t mind me. Ash, this isn’t a social call. Mind if I sit down?”

  “If I say that I do, will that make any difference?”

  “It won’t change the fact that I have to talk to you, and it won’t change what I tell you, but I’ll do it standing up.”

  “OK, now you’ve got me spooked. Just sit the fuck down. You look like you’re gonna fall over. What the hell is going on?”

  While I go back to my painting, Reggie folds his legs under himself and slides smoothly to the floor.

  “It’s hard to decide where to start. It’s bad news or worse news.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Fine. The Fed sent us our orders. The Academy is now officially part of their rehab and cycling program.”

  “If this is news to you, then you’ve not been paying attention. How many of us are camping out here?”

  “Too many for us to manage, and we’re just about to get some more. Civilians, too. As of yesterday, we’re the main site for cycling all the casualties and refugees from the Pollux campaign.”

  “They call it a campaign now? That’s gracious of them.”

  “They don’t call it anything. We are just dealing with an unspecified emergency. I call it a campaign – well, I’ve been calling it all sorts of things, but I really shouldn’t.” He lets the back of his head hit the wall with a thump.

  “Reg, what the fuck is going on? Are you alright?”

  “No, but that’s the least of my worries. You lot were the second installment. More are coming. They’re not going to be as messed up as you guys, so they won’t need as much care, but we’ve got to find room for them. That may not be a problem, though, because a whole chunk of our student body got suddenly homesick and quit.”

  “Cadets quitting? You’re pulling my dick!”

  “I wish I was. There have been lots of rumors going around about what happened on Pollux. Some of those rumors are nasty. That’s what you get when you don’t give people enough information: they’ll make up their own stories. I don’t know whether that did it, or whether it was watching you lot getting wheeled in here, but pretty much everyone who had any other options has fucked off home. About two-thirds of the second-classers. I can’t blame them: they didn’t sign up for this.”

  “What’s that, about half your students?”

  “Near enough. So we’ve got a lot of space, and it’s too late in the academic year to get replacements. But that’s just as well, because we’re about to get swamped. And that’s the good news.”

  “What the fuck is the bad news, then?”

  Reggie closes his eyes and lets his head flop against the wall.

  “We were of the impression that you lot were just here to heal. That’s no longer the plan. As soon as folk have got their medical clearance, we’ve got thirty-two days to clear them for active duty or to find them something else to do.”

  “Thirty-two days? Are you shitting me?”

  “I wish I was.”

  McGee starts laughing. “Man, I watched them wheeling some of the guys in. They’re hurt bad. Thirty-two days to get them back into work? I guess it makes sense to someone somewhere.”

  “It gets better. A bunch of the guys here aren’t going to make it back to active duty. They’re way too messed up. I’ve got thirty-two days to find them something they can do or they’re going to be fucked. All the third-classers, anyway.”

  McGee goes rigid. “Third-classers? They’re all Patrolmen!”

  “They aren’t, not unless they can go back to active duty. There’s not a guy here who’s over thirty. They’ve not served long enough to class up.”

  “But they got injured in the line of duty!”

  “You’d think that would matter, wouldn’t you? I would. Evidently, it doesn’t. All third-classers who can’t go back on duty have thirty-two days to find something else they can do or somewhere they can go, or the Fed will find something for them.”

  “Are we talking forced labor?”

  “That’s not the term they’re using, oddly enough.”

  They stare at each other until McGee shakes his head and looks away.

  “You know, I thought this couldn’t get any worse. I should have remembered how full of surprises the Fed can be. And you’re the asshole who’s got to give everyone the good news?”

  “Nope. I’m the asshole in charge of making this happen.”

  “You got voluntold?”

  “I got elected. Chancellor Paxton took a look at his coms and retired.”

  “Hugh retired? I thought he was planning to die at his desk.”

  “He was. I guess this was a bit too much for him.”

  “Wait. You got elected? You are the new Chancellor?”

  Reggie’s face splits in a grin, all teeth and no mirth. “Yup. I found out just this morning. They voted on it last night. I wasn’t at the vote because I wasn’t important enough to vote. Now I’m in charge of the whole shitshow. Fastest ascension ever.”

  McGee guffaws. “They fucking framed you. This is a glorious clusterfuck, and now
it’s your problem.”

  “Correct. I have three choices: quit, contravene my orders, or fuck a load of people over. Ash, I know most of these kids. I’ve trained them. I can’t let this happen.”

  “You’ve got no choice. You can’t stop it. If you don’t do what they tell you, they’ll just remove you.”

  “In less than a year I would have made second-class, you know?”

  “What? But you’ve been here forever!”

  “Twelve years, but the time before I was made an adjunct doesn’t count. If they kick me out, I’m going to be just another third-classer needing to find a new job on the double.”

  “Shit. What are you going to do?”

  “My skillset is limited. All my certifications expired two years ago. The only thing I’m good at is killing people. There’s probably a market for that, but I don’t think I want to tap it.”

  “Man, I’m sorry.”

  “You are sorry? About me? All I have to do is follow orders and I’ll be perfectly fine. I could come out of this on top.”

  “Yes. Provided you’re willing to sell your soul in the process.”

  “At this point, anyone who offers me a good deal for it can have it. I could do with the credit, and apparently having a soul has gone out of fashion.”

  “That seems to be the case.” McGee takes a breath so deep that I fear either the gloop or the skin on his chest will rupture. “Well, shit. Thank you for telling me. Any idea how long I’ve got?”

  “Nope. It will depend on your medic. But once they’ve cleared you, we’ve got thirty-two days to get you back into shape. I need to have a word with the medics. If they can hold on as long as they can before they discharge you…

  “I’m fine. I just need to get back on a ship.”

  “You might wanna wait until all your skin is attached.”

  “Skin is overrated.”

  “Clearly. A lot of guys are in a worse state than you, anyway. They’ll need rehab, retraining, all sorts. Four weeks is not gonna cut it. I need the medics to slow this shit down. I’m not worried about the second-classers: there’s always something out there for them. But we need to get the third-classer sorted out.”

  “Can you explain the situation to the medics?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, I can, but I don’t know how they’d take it. Martyn is going to be on board, I’m sure of it, but I don’t know the Fed medics who came with you lot. They could go either way. You know how the Fed value performance standards. The medics probably get points for cycling these people through as fast as humanly possible, and then some. I need to convince them to do the opposite. That’s not likely to go down well.”

  “If you have that conversation with the wrong guy, you’re going to get your ass reported for interfering with Fed procedures.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Nope.”

  I clear my throat and they both flinch. I think they’d forgotten that I was here. People do that a lot.

  “I do. I think. Well, no, I don’t, but I think I can help with your idea.”

  McGee tries to turn around to look at me and ends up floundering and swearing instead, so I walk over to where they both can see me. I don’t like having both of them staring at me, but this is too important.

  “The Fed medics don’t like working with ethnics.”

  Reggie frowns. “Ethnics?”

  “People of color. They don’t think we belong in a med bay. Or at the Academy, or in the Patrol. Or anywhere much, really. I think they’d have preferred it if we got left behind on Terra.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Dee had a bad feeling about them and decided to hear them thinking, that’s how, but I can’t tell him that. I can tell him a half-truth, though.

  “I get to hear things. People talk over my head. Literally and metaphorically.”

  Reggie snorts. “And they call you an ‘ethnic’? What do they call me, then? You’re practically Aryan by comparison.”

  “They’ve got a different name for Dee, that’s all I know.”

  His face goes blank. “Oh. I think I can guess it.”

  “Yeah. But they’re not, like, racists or anything. I mean, they are, but they also hate women, homosexuals, third-classers… They’re kinda equal-opportunity haters. Anyway, if you assigned us undesirables to the third-class patients, I’m willing to bet that the Fed medics would be more than happy to let Martyn supervise us.” And if they won’t be happy on their own, Dee can nudge them in the right direction.

  “What about Petersen?”

  I shrug. “I’ll just put the word out that he’s gay. Nate won’t mind.

  “You want me to throw the two Bens at them?”

  “They’re good guys. They’ll understand.”

  “And when the third-classers get held back? Won’t the Fed medics want to get involved?”

  “Not if Martyn is the person responsible. They’d believe we’re all fucking up because we’re inferior, and they wouldn’t care because only inferior Patrolmen would be affected.”

  McGee looks about to explode, but Reggie nods slowly.

  “Yes. I can see that work.”

  “I don’t,” snaps McGee. “Aside from the fact that you’d be pandering to bigotry in the most repulsive manner…”

  “We’d be exploiting bigotry for our own purposes. We might as well: it’s there whether we like it or not.”

  “It’s going to be obvious that we’re getting better and we’ve not been cycled up. How are you going to stop the other medics from butting in?”

  Reggie’s face splits into a grin. “Segregate the wards. I’ll park the third-classers somewhere awkward. I have to start moving people, anyway. We need to make space for the new arrivals.”

  A muscle twitches in McGee’s jaw, but he nods. “Yeah. That’d work. Anyone using the towers these days?”

  “The lower floors, yes. The upper floors are empty.”

  “There you go.”

  “You want me to have a bunch of invalids moved up to the towers? There are no lifts. How the fuck am I supposed to get them up there?”

  McGee grins. “We’re Patrolmen. We’ll manage. Leave it to me.”

  “No. I’ll leave it to Correia and Pax. They’re a good team. You let them do the organizing.”

  “What? Reg, I can do this!”

  “I know you can. They can do it better.”

  “You don’t trust me? Why?”

  “Because I know you. I know how you get.”

  “But Reg...”

  “It’s ‘Chancellor Williams’ to you.”

  McGee’s mouth drops. “For real? You’re going for it?”

  “Yeah. I’d do it just to spite them, if for no other reason. But we have plenty of other reasons. Dozens of them. Literally.”

  “Do you think you can pull this off?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Reggie unfolds himself off the floor in a single, smooth movement. “Ash? Let me know if you need anything, but let Pax and Correia organize this. If something is impossible, I want it worked around, not nuked from space.”

  “You’re coming dangerously close to hurting my feelings.”

  “Good. I must be rising to my new position.”

  It takes us no time to work out who we’re going to move and who we’re going to leave; we just split the Patrolmen by class and hope for the best. It takes us a lot longer to work out how the fuck we’re going to do it.

  With the new arrivals, we’re going to be dealing with 84 injured Patrolmen in total, of which half are already here. 57 of them are third-classers. I briefly wonder why the proportion of injured people is that skewed, given that the Patrol is two-thirds second-classers, but I forcibly evict the thought from my head: it’s not helping me getting shit done and I don’t think I’d like the answer. The important thing is that we need to find a way to move two dozen variously fucked-up people, and to make room for nearly three dozen more.

  The towers are mostly vacan
t because they’re a huge pain in the ass to access. The fool who designed this monstrosity of a building clearly believed that mock-Terran Gothic isn’t just for show: the only access to the towers is the spiral staircase, which is not precisely ideal to the movement of invalids and medical equipment. Martyn doesn’t have the time or inclination to help us because he’s too busy keeping people alive. Dee and Nate can help, but they can’t think of a way to simplify the process. All the Patrolmen are injured, so what they can do is limited. Worse than that, they’re scared and they won’t admit it. They’re treating the change as a major upheaval, and not helping us in the least.

  After a half day of pathetic floundering, McGee steps in. He doesn’t present us with a solution, nor does he decrease the level of stress and chaos in the ward. On the contrary, he increases it: he staggers around, face drawn tight in a combination of pain and anger, and quietly but coldly hisses at the relevant Patrolmen to “unfuck themselves.” I have no idea how or why, but those words work like a charm. The Patrolmen’s attitude does a U-turn and they all start to think of ways to help instead of reasons not to.

  The move progresses slowly but surely until Brady, the aphasic guy, has an idea. He doesn’t tell us about it; he just draws a diagram and passes it on to McGee. McGee’s response is to whoop, slap Brady on the back, curse at his injured hand, and go charging off into the distance. He comes back with a bunch of techs carrying a bunch of kit, and minutes later they are at the top of the tower, installing some kind of mechanical pulley on the outside wall. They start out lifting heavy equipment, like McGee’s tank, and pulling it through the windows. Once the first few bits go up and in successfully, they take to lifting the injured Patrolmen in their beds. I almost shit myself watching the first few of them get lifted, but they seem to like it, and it speeds up the move something chronic.

  After that, we get them all installed in the two towers in a matter of hours. When we’re done, we’re exhausted and the Patrolmen look tired and sore, but somehow happier, too. McGee, who installed himself in the top room as that was the easiest place for his tank to go, is beaming with pride. He even lets me touch up his liquid bandage without a fight. When I’m done, I find he’s fallen fast asleep while I was working.