The Guns of Joy

      The regs say that Carola can do nothing for William Bergen. It's laid out clearly in her field manual: a Talent's resources are too precious to be squandered on the hopeless. And Bergen's as hopeless as they come — infection has laced his guts so badly that the surgeons didn't even bother to prescribe an antibiotic. He just gets a sedative, and not a very good one, either. The heavy stuff's in short supply.

      That's not acceptable to Carola. She sees a hundred Bill Bergens come through here weekly. Treating them, in defiance of the book, used to be something special for her, something she took pride in. Now, it's just habit.

      She settles her hands on his greasy brow. Then she centres; grounds herself at four years old, before she knew that there were alien planets, much less wars to be fought on them. She channels the grace of a safe, secure toddler, and drizzles it into William Bergen's head.

      A wave of nausea knots up her stomach; contact with the nearly-gone is never easy. Bergen relaxes and sighs, and his bio-monitor changes to a less angry red. But he keeps on dying. This is the best she can do for him, to let him go a little more gently.

      She stands up, slowly to accommodate her queasy stomach, and allows herself a glance down the ward. It's full of men like Bill Bergen, men for whom she can be the only comfort. One of these days she's not going to be able to face this. One of these days she's going to butt up against the curtain this war is drawing around her heart. She's not going to believe that the idyllic bliss of her inner four-year old could have ever existed. And then they'll retire her, put her in a rest home somewhere with all the other burnouts, because she can't do her job if she doesn't believe.

      Next up is PECK, SCOTT, PILOT OFFICER. His legs stick out from his cot almost to the mid-calf. Supply bungled up and sent them several cots rated for Proxima heavy-worlders; too short, and with the spring weight to float a howitzer.

      Carola's been briefed on Peck. He was shot down last night, just after dropping a retarded tactical on a rebel-held suburb. Then, while he was drifting away on his parafoil, he got curious, he got stupid, he wanted a story to tell. So he looked at the blast, and his visor didn't polarize like it was supposed to. The 'foil brought him home none the worse for wear, except for the tiny blisters that the five-kiloton warhead raised on his retinas. He's an extremely poor candidate for implants, so he'll probably never see again. The doctors think he's suicidal.

      Peck doesn't want to cooperate with Carola. She begs, cajoles, tries every trick she knows, but he's fixated on something powerful, an image she can't push through — the leering skulls of his victims, backlit by a fusion sunrise —

      "Nurse?"

      The voice, an unfamiliar one, wrenches Carola out of her trance. Peck is left dangling. She turns towards the newcomer and sees that he's a colonel. With Planetary HQ, if she's got the regalia right.

      The watch surgeon hurries up behind them. "I'm sorry, Carola, I told them you were with a patient—"

      "This can't wait." The Colonel hands Carola an data card. "You've been transferred to General Shayters' staff. Effective immediately."

      Is this some kind of promotion? she wonders.

      "We don't have much time," the Colonel says. "Would you come with me, please?"

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