Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [43]
“And that’s how it’s done,” he announced. “If you want to turn it off, you just do the same thing in reverse. Or if you want to change the polarity of the fields, all you have to do is—”
Before he could finish his sentence, he heard something—a shuffling sound. Not sure what it meant, he shot a glance over his shoulder and saw Jiterica leaning against the bulkhead.
She was doubled over as if in pain.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I—” she began, but couldn’t get any further. “I—” The security officer didn’t know what to do for her. He didn’t even know what had happened. He had never had any experience with someone like Jiterica.
Tapping his combadge, he barked, “Pierzynski to sickbay! Something’s wrong with Ensign Jiterica!”
“Not—” the Nizhrak said, her voice strangely flat and emotionless for someone who was so obviously involved in a struggle. “I can—”
Pierzynski didn’t know what Jiterica was trying to tell him, but it really didn’t matter. She needed help, and unless he was mistaken, she needed it quickly.
“Hurry!” he shouted, urging on the medical team.
Chapter Thirteen
JITERICA WAS SITTING on a biobed and peering at Greyhorse through the transparent faceplate of her containment suit. “Interference?” she repeated quizzically.
“That’s right,” said the doctor. He turned to Simenon, who had apparently assisted in the ensign’s recovery. “Perhaps my colleague here would care to explain?”
The Gnalish shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It’s simple, really. Your suit is laced with a containment field—something like the barriers we generate in the brig to keep prisoners incarcerated. In your suit, though, the field is engineered to a rather exacting standard. In the brig, there’s no need for such precision, so the fields there tend to bleed a bit.”
Jiterica was beginning to understand. “When Lieutenant Pierzynski activated the barrier, it bled beyond its visible parameters . . . and interacted with the field in my suit.”
“With the result that your containment field went down,” Simenon told her. “At least, until we could figure out what had happened and drag you away from the barrier.”
“But while you were without the assistance of the field,” Greyhorse noted, “it was left entirely up to you to maintain your molecular density and keep your suit from exploding. That must have been quite a burden on your physiology.”
It was indeed, Jiterica reflected. Of course, she had contained herself for short periods of time before—when she beamed up to the Stargazer, for instance. But in this case, the lapse in her containment field had been unexpected.
“Had there been more insulation in your suit,” said Greyhorse, “this might have been avoided. But as it was . . .” He frowned.
“Needless to say,” Simenon assured her, “this sort of thing won’t happen a second time.”
The ensign didn’t doubt that he was right. But there were so many other things that could happen . . .
“And,” said the doctor, “you can leave sickbay whenever you feel rested enough. With your suit functioning again, there’s no reason to keep you here.”
Jiterica slid off the biobed less than gracefully. “Then I will be going. Thank you,” she said, “both of you.”
And she made her way out into the corridor, beset by more doubts and uncertainties than ever before.
Ben Zoma was already standing at the entrance to Wu’s quarters when the second officer showed up.
“Commander,” she said, looking more than a little leery.
Ben Zoma acknowledged her with a nod of his head. Then he waited while she tapped the metal plate set into the bulkhead, opening her quarters to them.
As he might have expected, the place was impeccably if minimally furnished and unutterably neat. Following Wu inside, he took a seat and waited for her to do the same.
“Well,” said Wu, with admirable efficiency, “here we are. What is it you