Nandita To Nandini
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Targets Of OpportunityChapter 2: Recovery And Connections free porn video
Melinda Smith was getting spooked out by the Confederacy vessel.
She had been one of the paramedics who had raced through the transporter to help in the marked out triage area in the transporter room. She also wanted to make sure they were doing the right thing, letting the victims be brought up here. Seeing the familiar, and dreaded, color coding of a mass casualty triage area had gotten her pulse racing and her mouth went dry. The professionalism of the medical personnel she had observed was reassuring, so she had turned to help the wounded, dropping her heavy first aid kit beside her. The sight of blood had never bothered her, even as a child, but looking around, she was shocked by the amount staining the deck. The sheer volume of casualties was overwhelming, and she hesitated for a moment, not sure where to start.
One of the Confederacy medics hurried to her side. “Thanks for coming to help,” he said, glancing quickly at her uniform and gear. “Please speak your findings out loud as you assess each patient. The AI hears everything you say and will be able to use its medical database to help assign priority codes. The only thing it will not do is assign Black codes to anyone not dead. You have to do that,” he had finished sadly, his eyes flickering briefly to the area of the room with black stripes on the wall and the covered and uncovered figures laying there.
The mention of Black codes made her shiver. That was a part of triage she had hoped never to be involved in. Usually, Black codes were assigned to people that were either dead or were still alive but beyond help with the available resources. The medic quickly briefed her on the revised criteria for Confederacy Black codes. Basically, unless the patient was brain dead or had severe brain damage, they could be saved. Brain trauma was about the only life-threatening injury the Confederacy could not fix, so some that would have been Black tagged on Earth would be classified as Red and taken away immediately here.
She knew that gunshot wounds were deceptive. A small hole going in, and somewhat larger hole going out, if there even was an exit wound. It was nothing like what the victims of a bomb blast suffered. There were no large-scale burns, or large pieces, or even entire limbs, missing, just those deceptively little holes. What they hid was the severe internal damage caused by the hydrostatic shock wave of the bullet punching through all that liquid-filled soft tissue. That was the part of the wound that was not casually visible. It was this overlooked damage that killed people.
At first glance, someone missing an arm must be in a far more life-threatening situation than someone with a little hole in their chest, but that was usually not the case. It had taken a fair amount of street experience to learn just how horrific the damage of the average gunshot wound could be. That knowledge kept tears in her eyes as she evaluated and treated as best she could, patient after patient. She was able to ignore all the details other than the wounds, things like gender, or more horrifically, age. At this moment, she only saw smaller and larger patients, although deep down she knew from bitter experience that her nightmares would clearly fill in the details she was able to deliberately suppress during the emergency.
Talking out loud to some AI that saw and heard everything was pretty weird but was not what made her feel so uneasy. What was creeping her out was that, as time passed, the bloodstains on the deck were shrinking. The blood was not running down drains or getting cleaned up though. She never actually saw them shrinking, but every time she looked up from a new patient, the pools of gore left by her previous patients were progressively smaller. She was becoming morbidly fascinated by the phenomenon. The only thing she could think of was that the ship was absorbing ---drinking--- the blood that had been spilled on its decks.
She did not know anything about Confederacy technology. The old adage that sufficiently sophisticated technology was indistinguishable from magic, certainly applied in this instance. However, deep in her heart, she felt no good could come from something that drank human blood, especially in the quantities that had been spilled on the ship’s deck today.
She felt very inadequate. The paramedic bags she had brought aboard were like a medieval midwife’s dried herbs compared to the nanite diagnostic and treatment kits being used by the Confederacy personnel. It was so easy to feel inferior and a little superstitious in these surroundings. Having seen a few too many science fiction horror movies did not help her peace of mind.
Melinda was thoroughly rattled by the time the last of the wounded had been treated. Not sure what else to do, she drifted over to the small knot of paramedics standing to one side. All of them seemed equally unsure of what to do next. While their faces reflected the horror of what they had just gone through, she did not feel like any of them reflected the same feelings of unease about the ship that she was sure her face did.
While they were standing ---huddling--- there, a Confederacy medic came over to them. He was carrying a large tray filled with steaming cups. The cups turned out to be filled with surprisingly good coffee. Smiling, he said, “Thank you all for your help. We actually have not had a great deal of MCI training, so your help proved invaluable. Thanks to you, there are far fewer fatalities.”
Pointing toward a doorway on the far side of the room, he added, “If you would like to relax, there is a lounge just down that hall you can sit down and unwind in. It has an attached locker room with showers if you want to clean up. You can put your clothing and equipment in the replicator, and it will be cleaned and returned to you as soon as you are finished with your shower. Decurion Gencarelli will be debriefing you as soon as possible. She is a trained trauma counselor so feel free to speak openly with her. Because this is a Confederacy vessel, nothing said up here will ever be transmitted back to Earth. After you have been debriefed, we will use the transporter to return you to Earth.”
Feeling better from the coffee and emboldened by the medic’s friendly manner, Melinda asked shyly, “What if we want to stay up here? I mean, even though the ship is kind of, um, creepy... , “ she broke off blushing as the others looked confused.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the ship, um, well, drinking all the spilled blood?” she asked.
The medic’s face cleared as she mentioned what had unnerved her so badly. “I’m sorry, I’d forgotten about that, as it’s just something we take for granted. All Confederacy ships are designed to absorb anything spilled on the decks. The material of the deck has micropores that nanites pull spills through. It’s one of the ways we keep the ship sterile.”
The perfectly logical, technical explanation cleared up Melinda’s concern. Now that she knew the truth, she was embarrassed about her earlier fears that the ship had been drinking the blood. If she had known that the absorbed spills were fed into the replicators to be torn apart and reused, she would have been horrified.
“As for your question, the Captain has authorized us to offer a one-time only deal to anyone who came aboard as either a victim or volunteer. If you wish to stay and become a Confederacy citizen or concubine, we will transfer you to a facility on the moon, where you can stay until a transport is ready to pick you up. Everyone who doesn’t wish to stay will be sent to the testing center nearest to their home, where the Confederacy will arrange transportation to the destination of your choice. If you desire, we will contact any designated concubines in prepacks or sponsors if you are part of a prepack to see if they want extraction. Again, this is a one-time deal. If you decide to return to Earth, your only hope of leaving is to get caught in a random extraction. The choice is absolutely yours, and we will not tolerate anyone interfering with another’s choice.”
For Melinda, the choice was easy. She had already missed one chance to join the Confederacy, when her entire church group had been picked up a few days ago. She was not sure if it was terrible or wonderful that her prayers had been answered. As long as they were willing to get her sister and boyfriend like they said, then she was in. Without hesitation, she asked, “Where do I sign up?”
When Sergeant Morris and the SWAT commander, Paul Stephens, stepped through the transporter, the worst of the screaming had died down. There were still patients and blood everywhere on the deck of the hospital ship. However, most of the patients had been given nanite transduced painkillers and/or sedatives. The mad scramble to handle the flood of casualties and traumatized survivors had calmed down to organized chaos. The rest of Sergeant Morris’ squad had already transported back over to the Tripoli and were presumably being debriefed and waiting for her.
They stood side-by-side, taking in the scene. It was depressing to know that even though the room was filled with patients, this was only the few remaining after the initial flood. Their hands were still clasped together, and both drew comfort from the simple touch of another human. The two of them stood awkwardly for a few minutes, neither sure what to say. They had both felt a connection down on Earth, but in the face of such tragedy, neither was comfortable talking about it.
Finally, Sergeant Morris stirred and stepped away. Clearing her throat, she mumbled, “I had better check on my men. The AI told me there is a waiting room down that hall where the other volunteers are waiting for the crew to sort them out.”
Paul looked down the hall, then back at the embarrassed-looking woman towering over him. He had no idea what to say. What he wanted to say had him blushing. Since he was sure he would never see her again, anything he said about the way he felt would meaningless. With a smile, he held out his hand, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I really hope we meet again someday under better circumstances.”
Sad, but relieved that the awkward situation was over, Sergeant Morris smiled back at him and shook his hand. Then the brave, towering Confederacy Marine sergeant fled before Paul noticed the tears in her eyes.
Turning away, he noticed a woman in a gray uniform approaching him.
“Greetings,” she said warmly, “I’m Decurion Gencarelli. I’m heading to the conference room where the other volunteers from the first responders are gathered. Would you please join us?”
“Captain Paul Stephens,” he responded, shaking hands with her. “It was a real shit show down there, but your Marines really came through for us.”
Gesturing around the bloody room, he added sadly, “I hope you have prepared counseling for the first responders and the victims. My training and interactions with first responders who have handled mass casualty incidents has shown me that most of them develop PTSD and other psychological issues.”
After a pause, he added, “I think I may have to include myself in that group. The bloodbath down there was the worst I’ve ever even heard of.”
Putting a hand on his shoulder sympathetically, she replied, “I’ll be here for you. I’m a certified trauma counselor and will do what I can before I have to ship out. Depending on what colony you are assigned to, there will be varying levels of support for you, since some colonies are older and more set up than others. Now, if you will follow me please,” she finished, gesturing down one of the hallways.
Together they headed down to the conference room. Many of the people there had availed themselves of the facilities and washed off the blood and gore. Not everyone had had time to though. Those people looked decidedly uncomfortable as they stood there waiting for their turn in the shower. They all looked up when Paul and Decurion Gencarelli walked in. Paul knew many of the first responders by sight if not by name and nodded to each of them. The group was shocked and subdued, still stunned by what had happened. It was pretty obvious Decurion Gencarelli knew that she would have her work cut out for her trying to help them. Paul knew the first priority was getting everyone clean. Once the visible blood was gone, people would be able to relax more. Hopefully, their subconscious would start responding to the lack of blood as signaling the horror was over, moving it from current to past. It would be a tiny start, but a start never-the-less. Out of polite habit, Paul pulled out his cell phone and shut it off, he hated when they went off during a meeting. Several other people saw what he had done and copied him.
Once everyone had settled, a disembodied voice spoke, The voice did not change inflection, but amusement was implied when it added,
It took Paul a minute to realize that the voice must have been the ship’s AI. Everyone had heard rumors of the super intelligent computer programs that ran most of the Confederacy. One of the points that Paul agreed with Earth First about was the danger of putting himself completely at the mercy of an alien computer program. It just did not sound safe. Human computers were scary enough in their capabilities, but rumors were that the most sophisticated human computer was less than a child’s toy compared to the self-aware alien computers. They were rumored to run the ships, the communications, the navigation, the weapons and defenses, coordinate all intelligence-gathering like an uber big brother, make the food, and even decide the fates of volunteers. It was truly a scary thought. Add in the fact they were self-programmed and self-aware, with no organic sentient anywhere in the loop and you had the embodiment of a science fiction writer’s nightmare. Even worse, Paul was now willingly putting himself at their mercy. He just hoped there was not a text program lurking somewhere inside them labeled, “To Serve Man”. Paul wisely decided to keep his musings about an old Twilight Zone episode and cookbooks to himself, the people around him were already upset enough.
the AI said to him through his implant.
he sub-vocalized.
Captain Sato leaned back in his chair, surprised by the AI’s decision. This was a large departure from the norm for pickups and made a bad precedent. However, he could also understand that these people needed loving support. Thankfully, implementing the plan was not his call, that would be up to Captain Young on the Tripoli. He was not sure how that would be handled, since they were not on extraction duty.
Sato replied. Privately, he hoped he could convince his counterpart.
Deciding not to waste any time, Captain Sato immediately called Captain Young.
When Captain Young responded, Captain Sato jumped right in. “The AI has authorized a pickup of all the survivors of the shooting,” he said. “I know that was expected, but the next bit is new. The AI has authorized all the sponsors, dependents, and prepack concubines of the survivors to be picked up also.”
“Hmm, that’s different,” Captain Young responded, “and quite likely to turn into a major snafu also. Who’s doing the pickups?”
Captain Sato just gave him a long look.
The light dawned pretty quickly and Captain Young looked like he had just bitten into a lemon, “Us, huh?” With a sigh, he added, “Damn it, I had hoped to never get caught up in that crap. All right, I guess since we have far more Marines than a standard colony transport, it’ll be easier and safer for us to do it. I’ll get my Marines on it as soon as your AI gets me the data on who we are grabbing.”
“Thanks, Captain, these people really need and deserve it after what they’ve been through,” Captain Sato said gratefully before signing off.
“Comms, please set up a ship-wide announcement,” Captain Young ordered, rubbing his forehead. He knew this was going to be a clusterfuck of the highest magnitude.
When the comms officer informed him it was ready, Captain Young said, “Attention all hands, it looks like we have been given pickup duty. I’m sorry, I know you were not expecting to have to do pickups, but today has been unprecedented. For the sake of the traumatized survivors of the shooting, I’m asking for volunteers to pick up their sponsors, dependents, and prepack concubines. This will be totally unlike a normal pickup. You will be given exact names of people to snatch by the AI. Go in, grab them, and get out. You will be grabbing a lot of people, so speed will be of the essence. The less time you spend in any one place, the safer you will be, and the less likely people will figure out what is going on and try to mob who they think you will be coming for.”
The Captain was extremely proud of his Marines when every single one of them volunteered to help get the people important to the survivors.
Nancy stood there, tapping her foot as her call once again went to Joe’s voicemail. Her shift was over and he was supposed to pick her up to go to the picnic. Granted, the picnic had been canceled, but she still needed a ride. It had been a hellish day and she really needed a hug. She completely understood the reasoning for the cancellation. How can anyone in their right mind celebrate anything after the horror of a mass shooting? They would probably just drown their sorrows with huge amounts of beer and become a danger themselves going home. She had no way of knowing some of the firefighters had left for the stars, leaving their comrades behind. That feeling of abandonment killed the mood almost as much as the shooting.
‘He better not have forgotten about me,’ she huffed to herself.
Getting pissed, she called his fire station. When the call was finally picked up, she asked, “Is Joe there? This is Nancy. He’s supposed to be here at the call center picking me up.”
“No, sorry. He never came in today,” was the unsettling reply. “In fact, he was one of several guys that never responded to the call in at all. We’re wondering where they are also. Its not like them to ignore an emergency.”
Nancy was suddenly really, really worried. There was no way Joe would have failed to appear when there was an emergency. That was when she remembered that he planned to buy supplies at ... the market. She wailed and collapsed. Her coworker, Mary, saw her collapse and ran over to comfort her. Seeing what she was going through, Mary was unable to keep Joe’s involvement a secret any longer and confessed that he was in the supermarket, in a safe hiding place, during the shooting.
Instead of calming down, Nancy became even more hysterical, now convinced that Joe was dead. She rushed to the morgue, anxiously awaiting the bad news while body after body was brought in for identification. Mary was worried about her friend, and about Joe who she secretly hoped would become her sponsor if the chance ever arose. After telling the head dispatcher where they would be if there was any news of Joe, Mary went to the morgue with Nancy. Since cell phones did not work in the morgue, Nancy had no idea that Joe was just as frantically trying to get hold of her so she could be picked up and join him.
The two of them waiting in terror for the revelation that would destroy them ... Joe’s body. Suddenly, the near-hysterical Nancy felt a presence looming behind her. As she spun around, a deep voice asked, “Are you Nancy Gormerly?”
She fell back a step as the two enormous men waited for her response. Mary rushed to her side, hugging her. They both instantly recognized the men as Confederacy Marines but could not imagine what they wanted with Nancy.
“Um, yes,” she responded warily, still baffled by their presence.
“The supervisor at the emergency call center informed us where to find you,” one of the huge men said.
“After the incident at the supermarket, anyone who is interested in emigrating is being allowed to volunteer. Joe Hodgkin informed us that you were his prepack concubine. If that is true, please verbally agree and we will bring you to him.”
Nancy’s eyes grew huge and she burst into tears and started babbling as the stress of the day overwhelmed her. The Marines tried to understand what she was saying, but her words were incoherent.
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