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Dr. Verena Urle’s office was a paradigm of efficiency, Brooks thought. There was her primary desk, there were bookshelves filled with physical copies of the most important documents, displayed perfectly, everything lit, everything neat. There was very little else, save for a chair for him. No photos, no knick-knacks, not even an errant paper. No sign of life.
It was a spacious room, but with the scale of Medical Station 29, it could afford to be. Yet the sparse nature of the furnishings made it feel almost too large. Uncomfortably so.
“I am quite busy, as you may guess, Captain,” she said. Her voice was inflectionless, merely information with none of the warmth. Not at all the woman Brooks had once known. “Perhaps you can appreciate my hard copies of The Complete Medical History of Humanity another time.”
“Of course,” he said, pulling his eyes away from the shelves. It was easier than looking the woman in the eyes.
“We have begun offloading the clones and their equipment to your people,” he began.
“I am aware,” she replied. “I have already received reports that it is behind schedule. I was under the impression you ran a tight ship, Captain. Was I wrong?”
The hardest part, he knew, was that it was not meant to be a snipe; if she said it, it was just likely to be true.
“I run my ship well,” he replied. “But with something of this nature, slow-downs can occur. I’d rather make sure it was done right than quickly.”
“We manage both, here,” she commented.
“With all due respect, Admiral,” he said, using her rank instead of title. “We are not a medical facility. We are a city-ship, and this is something we will handle as best we can. I have full faith in my people; they are doing their best. Once they are in your hands, we will all be happier.”
The woman nodded sharply, and looked down. “There is another matter which requires your attention.”
“The transfer of people from your station?” Brooks asked. He’d been informed ahead of time; it was not often that a ship such as his came here.
And Medical Station 29 was a hard place to work – or live. There was a long list of people asking for transport off, and the wait could be years.
“That is correct. My people estimate that your vessel can take 10,000 emigrants.”
“Ten thousand!” Brooks replied. “That’s a substantial increase in population, Admiral.”
“That is the second time you have called me by my rank,” she replied. “It is better if you call me Doctor if not Verena.”
“Very well, Doctor. But you understand my shock; our population cap is set at 40,000, and we’re already at nearly 35,000.”
“Yes, but these people will not be living on your ship for long. You need only take them to the next port – I believe your itinerary has you heading to Gohhi Station after here? They can certainly take on many of the transfers, who will then be free to move wherever they wish.”
Brooks was unsure how he would manage that many people. “Is this an order?”
“Yes, Captain, it is. But consider it in a humanitarian interest. Many of these transfers have been on the waiting list for five or more years, and they are only seven percent of current requested transfers. I expect that after taking your clones aboard, we will have many more.”
Brooks could not reply. In a way, they had an easy task, merely being the courier of these beings. Those who were in too poor a condition to have been moved from New Vitriol were now in the care of specialists of the Sapient Union, whose job was simply to make them as comfortable as they could in their passing.
And here at Medical Station 29, they would have to help those they could, watch many die anyway, and then help give the best lives possible to thousands of others who would likely never know a full life.
“I would order you to take more than ten thousand if I could,” Verena added. “But I estimate that this is the most you can comfortably transport.”
“We also have a number of people from New Vitriol,” Brooks noted.
“I took them into account,” she replied. She was looking down at her tablet and not even making eye contact.
In a way he was glad.
She said nothing for several moments, and Brooks cleared his throat. She looked up.
“It is good to see you, Verena,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“I am fine,” she replied evenly.
“Will you see Zach later?” he asked. It seemed an obvious question, but with how she was anymore, he couldn’t really know.
“I will see my ex-husband later,” she replied. “But it must wait. There are many important matters – these clones, and something else.”
“I know it will mean a lot to him and to the girls,” Brooks added.
“I understand that it will have an emotional impact,” she replied. “There is a more pressing issue, however. I have a special patient. I had hoped for you to bring your Cerebral Reader to meet him, but her initial reaction to the station does not give me hope.”
“What is the issue with this patient?” Brooks asked, trying to hide his discomfort.
He had met her since her accident. But it was always hard.
“He is one of the altered from the Battle of Terris,” she replied.
He sat forward in alarm. The battle.
“What is the nature of his . . . condition?”
“It is severe,” she replied. “And currently there is much I do not know. But most important is that this case must remain a secret, Captain. You must tell no one in the crew about it, besides whomever you choose to bring with you.”
“Who do I need? You mentioned Apollonia, but I don’t think she will be up to it – not yet. We only just took her in, and days ago she was awaiting execution. She’s going to need some time to adjust, to learn-“
“Understandable reasons,” Verena replied. “Instead of her, I suggest Ambassador Kell.”
Brooks frowned. “What is going on, doctor?”
“I will inform you more at 2030 hours,” she replied. “Dismissed.”
The sudden dismissal caught him off-guard.
Verena was already looking back down at her tablet, and Brooks awkwardly stood, moving for the door.
As he reached it, he could not help but look back.
“I am glad you are well, Verena,” he said.
She glanced up to him, and gave the barest of nods in acknowledgement. Then she returned to her work.
Other Terrestrial 