About the Survivors

[GSgt Mike Hefner 0]

GSgt Mike B. Hefner, SFMC, Retired

Lone Tree, TX, USA, Earth

October 10, 2427

 

About the Survivors

 

"About the survivors? Yeah, we had survivors. But sometimes it's better not to survive, if you know what I mean."

 

The interviewer was young, but Mike had to hand it to him - he didn't have the cockiness about him - or the eagerness - that some of the others had. Eager to hear the stories, the nitty-gritty, the blood and guts parts that you didn't want to remember.

 

Thirty years after the fact you'd think that someone would forget most of what'd happened in a lifetime. But there're some things you just can't forget; the image burned into your brain like old time negatives. But the kid just sat there. Waiting. His expression was passive but sensitive. His baby blues had misted over a bit at the mention of the Soltan's destruction of the fleet, but he kept it in check. He'd been trained pretty good.

 

"'Course you know Marines don't really have medics?" A question, but not a question. When the kid nodded, Mike continued. "But in our business we got all kinds of training 'cause you never know what you're coming up against, who's goin' to be around, what the circumstances're goin' to be. Specially if you're out there on your own, or with a small team, we look after each other, depend on each other, and that means doing what we have to do..." He was getting way off base, so Mike reined in his thoughts, trying to keep them focused, blocking out all the other missions he'd been on, who'd survived, who'd not survived, who'd died in his arms...

 

"...so we're trained in field medicine." Mike leaned forward for a second, letting the west Texas late afternoon breeze ruffle his thinning hair as a redtail hawk caught a thermal just beyond the barn. "Basics, but everything from patching 'em up to deliverin' a baby."

 

Mike's tight grin released some of his tension. The kid sat back in the rocker, its dry, worn runners creaking on the weathered deck.

 

"Survivors, yeah we had 'em. Beamed 'em into 'Court's gamma section for triage - we had a medical bay in gamma. Since we're only medics we did triage - figured out who really needed the docs and who had papercuts..."

 

Another tight grin.

 

"Trouble is they all pretty much needed attention. Normally the Soltan - the damage they did - they didn't leave survivors. But this time it was more like they wanted to do the most damage they could without killin', like ... sending a message?"

 

The kid stopped rocking, his eyes riveted on Mike, like he was trying to capture every nuance of expression.

 

"I remember this one... a young lieutenant. Not much older than you. She didn't look bad, but she was out cold and materialized in the bay the way she was on the deck in engineering - she was an engineer - could tell from the bits of uniform that melted into her..."

 

Long pause.

 

"She was one of the ones who should have died right out, but like I said you couldn't tell 'cause she was lyin' on her side? And when we turned her over...?"

 

The breeze grew to a sizable dust devil. It caught a few tumbleweeds and bits of over-dry grass that scattered through the corral, swirling everything into its maw to deposit it several miles away when it petered out. The kid coughed a few times, caught off-guard by its sudden appearance. Mike had covered his mouth and eyes within seconds and waited for it to pass. Then he grabbed a piece of straw that stuck in the deck boards and began to pick the head apart, crushing each seed head to the kernel.

 

"What about the others?" he said as the coughing subsided.

 

"Others?"

 

"Were there any who weren't injured that badly? Any minor injuries?"

 

Damned kid hadn't even paused in his note-taking. "Yeah, there were others. Anyway, after we got 'em all tagged - we were still using the old system n'case electronics gave out. Soltan were good at takin' out what you needed - or what you think you needed to survive. Anyway, we tagged 'em all - green for minor, yellow for delayed or not critical, red for immediate or critical, and black for deceased. There weren't many deceased in the bay. Those we beamed over still had life signs. Deceased happened after the fact.

 

"Anyway, we got 'em all tagged. We all had side-arms, but a few teams were assigned to look for blues."

 

"Blues.... as in infected?"

 

"Right."

 

Another long pause while Mike picked some more at the stalk, prompting the young man to ask, "Were there any?"

 

He stopped picking and turned to meet the interviewer's gaze. "You know, we'd been pretty lucky. Boarded several times before, took heavy casualties, but no infections. Well ... there was one and they did their best to cure him, but it didn' work. But by and large we'd been real lucky. This time they succeeded - the Soltan I mean. One sign and wham - instant gamma lockdown, total quarantine.

 

"Worst part is the poor guy didn't have a name, only 'patient 063.' Don't know if it was male or female, only patient 063. Take away a person's name, give him a number, and suddenly he's no longer a person, he's an it. A Soltan. Damned poor system, but it's the only way you can deal with it, know what I mean?" The kid obviously didn't. "'Course you don't."

 

Mike shifted to stare at the hawk, now a speck in the distance, several thousand feet above the far pasture. "And when you're an it, you realize you're one of the ones who should've died."