“So you’re saying that Dad was attacked by an alien.” “That seems to be it.” I shrugged. “Although why they would hit him with a stun weapon instead of, well, something more lethal is … unclear.” “And your power thinks you can figure out how to talk to aliens?” “It wants me to. Although that’s not as much of a priority as waking Paul.” Anne glanced at Paul’s still form. “If you can figure out how to wake him up…. Any luck on Cure?” “Nothing yet. I’ve been using Heal and Cleanse Toxins as much as I can, to see if leveling those skills unlocks the next one.” “What if we tell the doctors? I know it’s risking exposure…” “The doctors wouldn’t know where to start. Q-phase stunners are alien tech. If we had a few more samples to reverse engineer - or whatever the aliens use - I might be able to jury-rig something to counteract the effect.” “You sure?” “Not really. It’s a long shot - but Medtech’s got to be good for something.” “So then we’re still at square one.” “Until I can crack Cure, yeah.” Anne nodded. “By fighting aliens and leveling up?” “By fighting aliens and leveling up.” “Well, I’m coming with you the next time.” I frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “I’ll wear armor and stay with the support. You’ll need my nanobots, though.” “It’s too risky.” “You’re the one doing risky things. If my nanobots can spot an enemy from a distance, you - and your Army friends - will be a lot safer.” Anne had a point. “Fine, but you stay with the support.” “Don’t worry, I’m not getting closer than a kilometre to the aliens, even with a suit. My nanobots will do the fighting for me.” She grinned. “Especially if you equip them with, say….” “No antimatter!” “We’ll see.” I tried using Cleanse Toxins on Paul Drake again that night, just in case. Naturally, it didn’t cure the Q-phase effect. It did, however, help his kidney function. I took a moment to check Paul’s attributes. His Vitality had dropped. Earlier, he’d been at a healthy 12 Vitality. About normal for a strong, fit man slightly past his prime. Now, after months in a medical bed and no physical exercise, it was down to 7. I hadn’t told Anne about this. She hadn’t needed the numbers, though; Paul’s muscles were atrophying, and his body was gradually growing weaker. My Quest didn’t give me a time limit on reviving him; but there was one, nonetheless. I didn’t know if his Vitality would keep dropping or if it would eventually flatten at a minimum; but he couldn’t stay like this forever. I needed Cure. And there was only one way to rush getting it. “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Belessar,” said McCarthy. “I want to volunteer my services as a healer,” I explained. “Legally. For free. To help people get back on their feet.” I paused. “Not indefinitely, but for a few months at least.” McCarthy shook his head. “There are multiple laws against serving as a medical practitioner without a license.” “I know, but I don’t have time to go through several years of certifications. I was hoping you could help me get a shortcut.” I paused. “The videos showed what I can do, right?” “Yes, your tech… definitely works. And that you’re willing to volunteer for free also helps. But Belessar - you can’t just do this for a while and stop. People may develop expectations.” “That’s why I want it to be a short term thing. I’ve made a pledge to help a certain number of people in a short span of time, and I want to keep it. I need someone to help set up the legalities.” I shrugged. “Also, it could be a good PR opportunity. Might be enough to get me classified as an anchor for the next battle.” “I rather think it might work the other way. Still, if you insist, we’ll figure out how to set it up.” “Thank you. That’ll be a great help.” “You want to do what?” exclaimed Doyle. “I want to travel across U.S. Army hospitals and heal injured personnel,” I explained. “You know my healing works.” “I know, but we can’t pay you the normal rates. And our troops get good care.” “I’ll do it for free. Just handle my travel costs. Also, your troops cost you resources when they’re in the hospital. With my help you can get them on their feet sooner.” “This is way above my pay grade,” grumbled Doyle. “What’s your angle, Belessar?” “Consider it a patriotic contribution? A gesture of thanks?” “Thanks for what?” “For access?” Doyle’s eyebrows went up. “Really.” “All right, it’s just something I can do. For a limited time only.” “I’ll kick it up the chain of command.” “We’re honoured to have you, Belessar,” stammered the hospital administrator, “but surely you understand we can’t have you use …. experimental healing technology … on our patients.” “Just the ones who don’t have any better options. Trauma and emergency care, triage, that sort of stuff.” “It’s already taken care of, and we really can’t have an unlicensed person providing medical care….” “Can you actually help them?” asked the centre administrator. “No charge?” “I can get them the basics. Administer medical treatment, detox, and heal any immediate medical conditions.” The animal shelter administrator sighed. “It’s rare to see anyone taking so much effort to help the sick ones. The well-bred ones, they get homes and owners who take care of them. These ones…. aren’t so lucky.” She waved her hand at row after row of cages. “A lot of these dogs lost their owners in the attack, too. No-one to look after them.” “I’ll do what I can.” For the next three weeks, I power-trained my power. I would wake up at five a.m., gulp down breakfast, and make my way to the Healthy Hearts Animal Shelter. From six to eight, two hours of continuous healing, treatment, and the extensive use of Cleanse Toxins and First Aid to help sick, injured, and ailing dogs and cats. Lara Sharp, the administrator, and Dr. Lucius Valotti, the veterinarian, were usually there to help. It was a small place, with over seventy lost, abandoned or injured pets. We worked to get them back to healthy condition, and have them handed over to owners. At eight-fifteen, a U.S. Army jeep would pick me up and take me to the base. From there, a USAF aircraft would be waiting. The first day, I’d been surprised to see an aircraft reserved for me. Major Fraser had explained it simply. “Where we’re going, if you can get ten men healed up, the cost will be worth it.” And he made me work to earn the flight privileges. The first hospital I visited had close to seven hundred injured, sick and recovering soldiers. Plasma burns, shell wounds, shattered limbs, broken spines and hips - all of which would require major reconstructive surgery. From the time I walked into the ward, I was using Heal almost continuously. The military doctors had been sceptical at first, but the Major had secured the orders needed - and I made sure he didn’t regret it. At the end of the day, four hundred of the soldiers were able to stand, or even walk. Nearly three hundred cases, however, were beyond my ability to help. Major Fraser had been quiet when he escorted me out of the hospital. “It’s a good thing you did,” he told me. “We didn’t expect you to help everyone.” I sighed. “I didn’t expect that, either. I wish I could have.” “Well, those you helped are grateful. So am I. So is the U.S. Army.” “Thanks. Where to tomorrow?” Fraser’s eyebrows had shot up, but he’d said nothing. Over the next three weeks, I discovered that the U.S. Army had a lot more hospitals than I’d ever suspected. And thousands of men in convalescence. Most of the soldiers - and sailors, and aviators - I helped had wounds that would recover on their own, eventually. A smaller number - those with plasma burns, those suffering from spinal injuries and nerve damage - had been classified as ‘permanently disabled’, so the doctors were happy when my powers got them out of wheelchairs or burn wards. Sadly, far too many of them were beyond my ability to help. My Relationship meter showed the effects of my visits, of course. The Relationship score with the U.S. Army rose rapidly as I healed more and more of their soldiers. So did my Ethics score. By the end of the first week, a notification informed me that my relationship with the U.S. Army was now that of a Trusted Ally (5). Which led to a very interesting conversation as we flew back one afternoon. “Have you considered signing up for some tactical exercises?” asked Fraser. I shook my head. “Never really thought about it.” “There are specific training programs we do for ultrahumans. Things that might be of use against the aliens. I could put in a word for you, help you get some skills.” “I’d appreciate that,” I replied. My Heal skill, as I’d expected, leveled rapidly. By the end of the first week, it had reached Level 5. HEAL LEVEL 5: TARGET RECEIVES +50 HP. COST: 30 MP. VALID TARGETS: SELF, ALLIES, ACQUAINTANCES, BYSTANDERS. The next morning, Tucker was in the jeep that came to pick me up. He handed me a thermos as I climbed into the vehicle. “I thought I’d check out your pickup point.” “Thanks.” I sipped the coffee. “Ah, nectar of the gods - morning coffee. What do I owe you?” “It’s from the base coffee machine, not the good stuff from Starbucks.” “So it’s free?” “Yeah. And hot. I don’t know how you’re managing to drink that.” “It’s not that bad.” Tucker shrugged. “I figured you were choosing this place because of how isolated it is. You actually heal the pets, huh? Why?” I considered telling him that the healing I did with the dogs and cats every morning helped boost the skill. Not worth the follow-up questions. Instead, I shrugged. “It’s just a thing for me.” “Yeah. You’re doing good, I heard. Healing a ton of guys.” “It’s a living, right?” “Grapevine says you’re doing it for free.” “The grapevine’s right.” “Why? The Army’d pay you if you asked, you know.” “They pay me enough to fight, Tucker. Besides, the money’s better spent on buying you guys guns. Speaking of which, how’s the laser? Need more ammo yet?” “Uh….” I frowned. “Tucker, where’s the laser rifle I gave you? Why aren’t you using it?” Tucker paused. “I think you need to talk to the Lieutenant.” “Dammit, Tucker, I gave you the rifle, not the Lieutenant. It’s gene-locked to you; nobody else can use it.” “Sir,” Tucker’s voice was oddly formal, “I strongly recommend that you have a word with the Lieutenant regarding the matter of the rifle.” All right, I could take a hint. I resolved to ask Doyle about it when we got back to the base that evening. After my return from yet another Army hospital, I left Fraser to head to Doyle’s office. The Lieutenant was seated when I walked in. “I need to talk to you about Tucker,” I said. “What about him?” asked Doyle. "I gave him a laser rifle after the battle at New York. Why isn’t he using it?" The Lieutenant looked me up and down. "Sit down, Belessar." He didn't sound friendly. I sat. Lieutenant Doyle leaned back in his chair. "Belessar, do you know what PFC Tucker's role in this platoon is?" "Uh… he's a soldier?" "He's an infantryman. Military occupational speciality, light weapons. Expert Infantryman Badge, Combat Infantryman Badge, Alien Defence Badge. Two years in the service and excellent reviews by all his sergeants. All earned using his standard M22 rifle." "So, he's a good candidate for using a laser." "The weapon he uses would be my decision, Belessar. Not yours." Oh. "I'm sorry," I stammered. "I … didn't think of it that way." "I understand that, and I don't blame you. Tucker is trained in the use of a specific type of weapon. He's spent two years getting good with it. He knows how to fix it in the field. In short, he has the best chance of surviving a battle if he uses it." "But the laser's a more powerful weapon." "A weapon that only he can use, with limited ammo. Can you make forty laser rifles for the rest of the unit?" "Yes…" "Can you make forty thousand?" ".... Why would you need forty thousand?" "Because we can't be the only unit in the U.S. Army with a unique type of weapon. Can you make forty thousand laser rifles? Enough to equip a single division?" I ran through the calculations rapidly in my head. Between the focusing crystal, the small power pack, and the actual assembly, each laser rifle cost 1100 MP - so I could make maybe one per minute, or four hundred in a day…. "It would take me three months," I admitted. "Maybe four." "And the ammunition? We need about 50,000 rounds of ammo per rifle." I flinched. That was nearly two hundred power packs. "An hour extra per rifle," I admitted. "That would take me…. nearly twenty years. If I worked on it full time." Doyle nodded sympathetically. "Would it surprise you to know that you're not the first inventor to offer special weapons to the military?" "The thought hadn't struck me." "Others have offered the Army weapons and systems. Mostly out of patriotism, some for the profit opportunities." "What happened?" "Every inventor eventually realizes that they can't possibly produce four million weapons a year. Inventech just isn't mass producible. I won't try to guess what the constraints on your production capacity are - I'm not sure I'd even understand them if you did explain. But I know that every inventor has a limit to what they can make - and that limit is far, far lower than what's needed to equip a military with even the most basic weapons." Doyle shrugged. "The trouble isn't making a single rifle, Belessar. It's making enough weapons to make a difference." "I understand," I replied, chastened. "I'm sorry about this." "Don't worry about it. Your intentions were good. So are your weapons - I gather about a third more powerful than a standard assault rifle?" "About that, yeah." "I'll talk to command about seeing if we can do anything with it. But Belessar?" Doyle's tone was mild, "don't ever rebuke one of my men again." I winced. "I won't." YOU HAVE LEARNT A LESSON IN HUMILITY AND NOT OVERSTEPPING YOUR BOUNDARIES FROM A FRIENDLY - IF ANNOYED - ALLY. CONSIDER THIS A WELL-EARNED LESSON. +1 WISDOM FOR KEEPING YOUR COOL AND UNDERSTANDING THE LIMITS OF YOUR AUTHORITY.