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THE TRIP BACK TO THOR’S Hammer from New Madawaska had been mercifully short and Sigurdsson, her useless left arm held against her body in a makeshift sling, had spent the entire trip pacing the cargo hold – converted into barracks – aboard their troop transport, the HMS Battersea Park. Though Sigurdsson was glad to be back aboard the massive space station, she was not pleased with the wait list to see one of the handful of doctors aboard Thor’s Hammer with any expertise in cybernetics. She was even less pleased with the way the consultation had gone when she’d finally been called.
"These are industrial prosthetics," the elderly doctor had said with a resigned sigh.
The scuttlebutt around the station was that he’d retired several years ago, but come out of retirement to help after the ril-galas had shown up. Sigurdsson had to respect a man who would do something like that in his late seventies – maybe even early eighties – but that didn’t mean she had to like what he had to say.
"They were designed as limb replacements for factory workers, mill personnel, miners – industrial applications, you see, not military," he said. "While these cybernetics are certainly hardier than civilian-grade replacement limbs, they are a far cry from military-grade."
The question of why she wasn’t given military grade prosthetics was on the tip of Sigurdsson’s tongue, but she already knew the answer. Erindale Station.
"So, what do we do? Where do we go from here?" she asked instead.
"I can authorize repairs on both limbs to allow you to at least be functional for the time being. I can also requisition another set of prosthetics and, once they arrive, we can perform another replacement surgery."
"Shit. Fine," she said. That would be her second replacement set. Sooner or later, the Commonwealth Armed Forces were going to decide it was more cost-effective to bring in someone new to fill her role than to keep paying for new arms for Freyja Sigurdsson. "How long?"
"We have a waiting list," he said, with the way he said it implying an apology. "I would expect thirty days as our best-case scenario."
Sigurdsson closed her eyes.
"And I can’t be cleared for active duty," she said, holding up her one functional hand. "Until I get these replaced."
The doctor nodded and Sigurdsson swore.
"Thanks, Doc. Just... just let me know if that timeline changes. Okay?"
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Sigurdsson left the medical centre and began wandering more or less aimlessly through the station. Passing areas designed for military purposes that had been repurposed into shopping areas by the civilians, passing the guarded doors that lead to the Soviet Block, she unsurprisingly found herself standing outside the doors of The Pub. Despite its owner’s lack of creativity in the naming department, The Pub had become a favourite haunt of many off-duty members of the military, officer and non-com alike. Its design allowed for plenty of social interaction for those who wanted it, but also a number of secluded booths for those who didn’t.
As she entered the bar, Sigurdsson headed directly to a booth, sliding into the far side where she was least likely to be noticed by the other patrons. Tapping the call button for the waitress, she ordered a bottle of the terrible whiskey they distilled somewhere in the stations bowels.
"Here you are," said the waitress as she returned, setting the bottle and a passably clean metal cup on the table. "Enjoy."
"Could you pour? Please?"
Shrugging, the waitress poured some whiskey into the cup before heading off again to serve another table.
Sigurdsson was staring into the bottom of her empty cup when she felt a pair of eyes on her and looked up with a scowl. And then smiled.
"Heard a rumour you were back on-station," said Radko, sliding in across from her.
"Only been back a few hours."
They both just smiled at each other for a few moments. Though Sigurdsson looked tired – understandably so – Radko was glad to see her. It had been too long. The hair on the sides of her head was starting to grow back, but she’d no doubt shave it again when she had the chance. It was an affectation all the survivours of the Von Daniken’s Landing garrison had taken on after their exfiltration, shaving the side of their heads. Radko didn’t know the specific significance of it and he had never asked. Some things were meant to be for a select group of people and if Sigurdsson ever felt like he should know, he was sure she’d tell him.
"New Madawaska was a success," he said. "Though it looks like you took a bit of a beating."
Sigurdsson snorted.
"Yeah. I’m on medical leave."
With a sigh, Radko nodded.
"Heard that too."
After glancing around unsuccessfully for the waitress, he stepped out of the booth and grabbed an empty glass from a nearby table that had yet to be cleared. Sniffing it, he shrugged, sat back in the booth and poured himself some whiskey.
"Didn't you say this stuff was the shittiest whiskey you've ever had?" said Sigurdsson, the ghost of a grin twitching the corners of her mouth.
"Yeah, but it's what's here right now."
"Can I get a refill, too?" asked Sigurdsson, pushing her metal cup forward.
As Radko complied, Sigurdsson shifted in her seat a little uncomfortably.
"Also," she said. "Can I ask you... what might be kind of a weird favour?"
"Okay," he said after a moment’s hesitation.
"Can you... can you rub my eyes?"
"Your eyes...?"
Holding up her right hand, she waggled her fingers.
"These things. They’re in such a fucked up state right now that I’m not sure I can even hold a bottle without shattering it. My eyes have been bugging the hell out of me, but I don’t want to end up accidentally crushing them. So..."
Radko chuckled.
"Sure. Lean forward."
As she did, he reached out, placing his fingertips on either side of Sigurdsson’s head and gently placing his thumbs over her closed eyelids. He wasn’t sure how much pressure to apply, since it was hard to judge how hard to press into someone else’s eyeballs – which in itself was not something he ever thought he’d have to take into consideration—but he began rubbing in a circular motion.
"Harder."
He complied, increasing pressure.
"That’s great. Thank you."
"No problem," he said as they both sat back in their benches.
"Jesus. You have no idea how good that felt," she said.
Sigurdsson held up her cup and Radko held up his glass and they both downed their drinks.
There was silence as he poured them each another, but then Sigurdsson cleared her throat lightly.
"How’s Cortez?"
"She’s okay," said Radko, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Good days and bad days, but mostly good right now. At least, that what she keeps telling me."
Sigurdsson nodded and sipped her drink. Radko knew that she knew the subject of Anna’s health was a difficult one for him and he appreciated that she didn’t press for more details. The fact was that regardless of what Cortez was telling him, she was still facing a terminal diagnosis. Exposure to the radiation within the Ishtar Gate – the gas cloud within which Radko had ordered the Vimy Ridge concealed while they planned their attack on the ril galas blockade – had exacerbated a previously undiagnosed brain tumour. By the time it had been discovered, it had been deemed inoperable.
Just one more death he could chalk up to his decisions. But unlike the people still dying on Earth, this death he was watching happen, bit by bit, every day.
"I know what you’re thinking," said Sigurdsson. "And you need to stop it."
"Not sure what you mean."
She scowled at him.
"Fuck off. You know exactly what I mean."
She waved her cup around in the general direction of the ever-increasing number of patron in The Pub.
"These people? Most of them have no idea. About any of it. They don’t know what it was like fighting in those first days of the invasion," she said. "Fighting an enemy you knew not one goddamned thing about. Fighting and watching people die all around you – people you didn’t know, people you’d known for years. Friends, colleagues, strangers, even people you didn’t like. Soviets, Commonwealth, icarans – I watched an icaran’s fucking face melt off – they all died. We didn’t. We survived. And no matter what we may say to ourselves when we look in the mirror – don’t give me that look Radko, I know you do it, too."
He stayed silent but nodded.
"Just because we survived doesn’t mean it’s our fault that they didn’t."
"I’m sorry to interrupt."
They both looked up, surprised to see Khaifa standing beside their booth.
"Doctor Khaifa," said Radko.
"Doesn’t really seem like your kind of place, Nasrin," said Sigurdsson. "I take it this is business."
"Yes. Yes, it is," she said, glancing quickly at Sigurdsson, then back to Radko. "Commander, may we speak... privately?"
"No."
"Umm..."
"I’m sorry Doctor, I’m really not trying to be rude, but I’ve had my fill of politics for the day."
"Believe me, I understand that feeling more than you know," she said, running a hand through her hair. "But I really do need to speak with you."
"So have a seat," said Sigurdsson.
The Doctor hesitated for a moment, then slid into the booth next to Radko. He knew from past discussions that while Sigurdsson held no animosity toward Khaifa for the doctor’s amputation of her arms, Doctor Khaifa had been uncomfortable around Sigurdsson ever since.
"First off," she said. "I agree with most of what you said in the conference room, just as I’ve agreed with you all along. But I can’t fight these boardroom battles on my own. We both know that this advisory committee the Prime Minister has assembled is mostly for show. I may be Director of the Ministry of Health, but I don’t have any real power in there, other than what support I can give someone who actually does have some sway."
"And you think that’s me?"
"You’re Finn Radko," said Sigurdsson, shrugging. "Like it or not, you’re the guy people will listen to."
"More than that," added Khaifa. "You’re someone – the only one in that room, honestly – who has actually accomplished anything in this war. Like it or not, this has very much been your war from the start – you were there as it began and you fought your way through it to this place. Without you, we’d all be dead right now."
"I don’t think I’d go that far. If I hadn’t done it, someone else-."
"That’s irrelevant," said Khaifa. "No one else did. You did. When something needs to be accomplished, you do it."
She paused, fidgeting with the bracelet she wore.
"Even if... the means of doing so are not entirely legal."
Radko exchanged a look with Sigurdsson before he spoke.
"Doctor..."
"Just... I’ve been in contact with someone. This individual has... let’s say resources that could help our cause."
"But?"
"But we can’t access them right now due to certain political roadblocks," she said, then met Radko’s gaze for the first time. "So I need the help of someone who doesn’t care about political roadblocks."
"I don’t know what you’re asking of me, Doctor."
"For now, all I’m asking is that you meet my contact. Speak with them. That’s it. Hear their story straight from them and then decide what – if anything – you want to do about it."
Silence prevailed for a moment as Radko stared at his glass, knowing both the doctor and Sigurdsson were watching him. The Commonwealth, or what remained of the Commonwealth, was struggling to bring assets to the war. It wasn't any great secret that the military was stretched thin, and that was the primary reason for the newly and uncomfortably close relationship between the government and a private military contractor like ATC Castle. That Khaifa was coming to him directly rather than through the official channels of the Commonwealth Navy was a tell, and a very clear one: whoever her contact was and whatever they had to offer, getting their assets into play was going to be neither easy nor was it likely to be strictly legal.
Looking Khaifa in the eye, Radko nodded once.
She thanked him, then turned her attention to Sigurdsson.
"I heard that New Madawaska has been secured?"
"Yeah. Took us a while, but we got it locked down. Probably still a few hostiles running around, but the clean-up crew will deal with them."
"I’m surprised you’re not in the cybernetics lab right now," said Khafia, nodding toward the damaged arm.
"Yeah," said Sigurdsson, then went on to explain about the wait list for replacement limbs. "And even when I do finally get them, there’s no guarantee the same fucking thing won’t happen to the new ones."
A long silence followed, during which it appeared to Radko that Khaifa was engaged in some kind of internal debate.
"Do you remember the brill doctor? From Von Daniken’s Landing?" she said finally.
"He’s kind of hard to forget," said Sigurdsson.
Khaifa nodded and pulled a small writing pad and pen from her jacket pocket.
"Go speak with him," she said, jotting down an address in the lower decks of Thor’s Hammer, tearing off the page and, folding it in half, sliding it across the table to Sigurdsson. "He has some experience with... alternative medicine."
Sigurdsson took the paper, but looked skeptical.
"How exactly is medicine going to repair damaged cybernetics?"
"The brill have been advancing medical science since before humans had our first off-planet colony. Just trust me," she said as she slid out of the booth. "Radko, I’ll set up that meeting. Today, if possible. I’ll let you know."
She said hasty goodbyes then disappeared into the crowd.
"What do you make of all that?"
"I’ve known Nasrin for a while," said Sigurdsson. "If she’s doing this kind of secret meeting, cloak and dagger bullshit? She must really believe it will make a difference."