29
“Stay still, please,” the Navy tech said from inside a protective booth.
The bed of the scanner was cold against his naked back, and the flimsy briefs he’d been given didn’t do much for his ass, either. The scanner probably cost the same as all of Charlie Company’s salaries combined, so you’d think they could at least warm it up a bit.
The machine came to life, a dull hum filling the exam room. The circular scan ring looked like the ones he’d gone through that first day of recruit training, but instead of simply walking through, he was flat on his back while it made multiple passes over him. Rev had been prodded, gotten a long-ass needle stuck into the back of his head to collect cerebrospinal fluid, and filled up a container with his piss. This was the last test he’d be subjected to.
It was hard to believe that he’d had his augments for a year now. Rev wasn’t sure why he’d been so hesitant before—other than the reason he was getting tested now, of course. They were part of him, just like anything else. Even his AI. He’d gotten used to having a veritable library at his beck and call. He’d kept his at a 25 percent PQ—he wasn’t about to go full Tomiko, something she thought was silly of him.
Not that his AI was on at the moment. It had been taken offline by the tech before he got on the table. Whatever the beams passing through his body were doing, they evidently could damage the AI.
Which didn’t build confidence in what was happening. If the scanner could mess up an AI, which was mostly crystal, then what was it doing to his brain? He tried not to be consumed by such thoughts as he was electronically dissected on the table, and he sighed with relief when the machine shut down.
“OK, you can get dressed now,” the tech said from his little booth.
“When do I find out anything?”
“As soon as the doctor is ready for you. Maybe thirty minutes or so.”
Which was a surprise to Rev. He’d figured the tests would take a couple of days at least to analyze. He felt a wiggle of nervousness. Thirty minutes was too soon.
Better than fret about it for the next couple of days, though.
He finished dressing and then the tech reactivated his AI before directing him to return to the waiting room.
“You’re not a mutant?” Tomiko asked him as he sat beside her.
“Not that you’d know. What about you?”
“I guess that’s what we’ll find out.”
There was an undercurrent of concern in his friend, something she hid well but he could sense. Not that that was surprising. This was their annual checkup to see what the augmentations had done to them. With few exceptions, they wouldn’t see huge problems yet, but depending on the results, they could get signs that foretold the problems were on the way.
Five minutes later, Daren Goya, one of their DC classmates and now a sapper, came out and sat by them. Over the next few days, all of their surviving classmates, at least those who’d been augmented, would be going through their first annual checkup.
Daren was one of the few sappers in their class to survive Preacher Rolls. The sappers, as was their usual standard operations, had gone in with the straight-leg infantry, and they’d been lost at the same rates.
“PFC Reiser? The doctor will see you now.”
“Well, here goes,” she said, standing and smoothing the front of her overalls.
“Good luck,” Daren and Rev said in unison.
“Think you’re okay?” Daren asked after the door closed behind her.
“Who the hell knows? I mean, I feel fine. No different.”
Which really didn’t mean much. If something was wrong at this stage, it would be at the molecular or DNA level.
“Yeah, same with me. I hope I’m OK, though.”
“Hell, Daren. It’s not likely we’re going to live long enough for it to matter.”
Which was the standard reply to anything having to do with the future. Lulling the gods of battle, the gunny called it. Making it so that they didn’t reach out and grab a Marine for being too arrogant.
Rev didn’t believe in any of that, of course, but it didn’t hurt to play along.
“You’ve got that right. Respect to the fallen.”
“Respect.”
They both mimed lifting a glass in a toast. Just one more Marine Corps superstition.
The door opened, and a corpsman said, “PFC Pelletier, you’re up.”
“Good luck,” Daren said.
“You, too.”
Rev followed the corpsman down the passage to a room near the end. The corpsman opened the door and waved him into it.
The doctor had his nose in a pad, but he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Rev sat, then waited in silence as the doctor read his pad. The longer the doctor didn’t say anything, the more stressed Rev became. He hadn’t been this nervous when he’d attacked the Centaur.
Finally, the doctor, a full Navy captain, put down the pad and raised his head to look at Rev.
“PFC Pelletier, thank you for coming in. I’ve got your results here. Your genetic drift is point-three-two, which is what we look at first, as that is the prime indicator of potential Weislen’s Syndrome.”
Rev knew enough to know that Weislen’s Syndrome was the real name of the rot.
“However, that isn’t our only interest here. In some of the other testing, your GSD is twenty-four-point three, your PPCA is right at seventy-nine.”
He went on in that vein, giving at least a dozen acronyms and numbers, exactly none of them having any meaning to Rev. Rev wanted to stop him and ask what all of that meant, but the doc was the same rank as a Marine colonel, and PFCs didn’t interrupt colonels as a habit.
“So, I’m going to keep you on the three-milligram regimen of Criolsol for the time being.”
At least Rev knew what that was. Criolsol was a preventative that was supposed to limit cellular damage, and he’d been on it since his augmentation. He thought it must be a good sign that the doc hadn’t increased it, right?
“And so, I’m going to clear you for continued duty.”
He entered something into the pad, then held it up for an ophthalmic signature.
“Do you have any questions, son?”
Rev did have questions. Lots of them. But he didn’t know where to start.
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, you can leave. Please tell Petty Officer Rincon to bring in the next patient.
Rev stood, came to a position of attention, then turned to the door. He started to open it, then turned and said, “Sir, I do have a question.”
“What is it, son?”
“All those numbers you told me. Does that mean I’m not getting the rot?”
The doctor gave a smile and said, “No, son. Your numbers are within accepted ranges. I don’t think you have to worry about it . . . for now.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rev said.
He turned and left the room, telling the waiting corpsman to get the next Marine.
Rev was relieved, of course, and the stress had melted off him.
He just wished the doctor hadn’t added that last for now.