So might, say, Murray Leinster’s “Pocket Universes.” When I finish writing this column, I’m heading to my Kindle to see if the story is available there. Many many older stories, things have been out of print for more than 60 years are now showing up in electronic format. So who knows? Influence is going to spread. Classics will get revived. Old stories, too advanced or outre for their time, might become new classics.
It’s a great new world. As a reader, I find it overwhelming and marvelous all at the same time. I feel like that proverbial kid in the candy store. Only I don’t ever have to leave, and more candy is being delivered all the time.
It makes doing best-ofs and awards lists nearly impossible. But that’s a small price to pay for the wealth of great reading available to us now.
And I, for one, am quite pleased.
****
The Medic
If Rourke hadn't dived into the shell hole outside the First Bank of Taiwan the instant he saw the two dead marines sprawled behind that burned-out Bradley, the sniper's bullet would probably have taken his head off instead of whacking into his thigh.
He rolled into a ball and gripped his leg. A razor tooth. Had to be. The impact was just like the survivors said-a savage, intense bite burned the instant the bullet's engine started up.
The shock wave of an exploding shell broke over him like the hot breath of the devil himself, bringing with it all the sounds of hell-the explosions, the whoosh of rockets, and rattle of small arms fire.
He tore open his fatigues to examine the wound. Of course it was a razor tooth. The entry wound was too small, too damned precise to be anything else. And there was so little blood. Wasn't that the standing joke among the grunts? That the bullet's little motor mouth drank the blood as the razor tooth chewed its way through you.
"Razor tooth!" He shouted it aloud just to hear himself say it, just to make all this believable. A hot spasm of pain shot up his thigh when the razor tooth's engine cranked up and burrowed its way deeper into the muscle. At least it was only a leg wound. That gave him good odds, maybe an hour before it minced his thigh and went for his vitals. More than enough time for a medivac.
Another shell slammed into First Bank, sending a rain of concrete and glass cascading down around him. An intact coffee mug with a smiley on it landed inches from his face.
"Red zero to red leader!" Lieutenant Bieber's voice was loud and triumphant in Rourke's headset. "Captain! We've taken Ketagalan Cross."
"Switch to cell phone," Rourke hissed. He put his headset on hold and whipped out his phone. Moments later, Bieber's sweaty black face appeared on the LCD screen. His eyes were wide and staring.
"Captain, what's wrong?"
"I'm separated from B Company."
"You're hit."
"Razor tooth. Leg shot."
"Bastards!" Then after a short pause, the lieutenant added, "I'll send a team."
"No time. Blow the Kaimi flyover and dig in."
"But you?"
"Sniper knows I'm alive so he'll have moved on by now. And I've got a medic. I'm . . ." Rourke gritted his teeth when another hot spasm ripped through him. He knew that was only the breath of the dragon. The bite would come soon, once the razor tooth hit bone. "I'm promoting you acting CO. Keep communication to cell phone."
"Understood."
Rourke killed the call and immediately put a medivac request through to GHQ at Kaohsiung. Once his GPS tracker coordinates were confirmed, he shrugged off his backpack and flipped it over. He cursed aloud when he saw the blackened hunk of shrapnel buried in the medic's pouch. Brain juices were oozing out around the shrapnel and giving the Kevlar stitched canvas an oddly skin-like appearance.
For one long moment he just stared at the case, wondering what to do with it. Ever since these little miracles had been introduced a year ago, he was still trying to decide whether the genetically modified brains actually felt anything. The Ingencorp execs said they didn't. Many others disagreed. Some scientists even claimed the medics had a consciousness and they actually experienced the pain they siphoned from their hosts.
It didn't really matter. What was a brain grown in a jar compared to a real life flesh and blood person? Who cared? None of his guys did-especially not the ones taking the hits.
He tossed the backpack aside, dragged the nearest marine into the shell hole, and removed the marine's medic. The boy's eyes were still wide open with shock. They'd obviously been sheltering behind the Bradley when the sniper found them, and he guessed this one had taken the second hit.
He eased the boy's eyes closed and snapped off his dog tag. Once he laid the corpse out in the corner, he released the butterfly clips holding the medic's lid and yanked out the umbilical. The twin ranks of tiny attachment hooks glimmered like metal fangs when he peeled away the plastic cover from the attachment clip. An indicator light on the medic's control panel blinked orange. He pushed the clip hard against the back of his neck. The light turned red. Metal teeth dug into his flesh. In his mind's eye he saw the two microscopic tendrils emerging from the clip, their ultra sound sensors guiding them through the wad of muscle and tendons to penetrate his spinal cord and carotid artery.
The rush of epinephrine the medic administered immediately increased his pulse. Seconds later, the fire in his thigh eased away to a dull throbbing.
He lay back and wiped sweat from his brow. High above the charred, decapitated office blocks lining Shifen Road, black spirals of smoke curled into the sky. In the distance Taipei 101 stood defiantly like a dream tower instead of a financial center. A girlish scream rose up from somewhere off to this right. Chinese. Had to be. Only they could scream that long, that loud.
A trader missile detonated outside First Bank and sent a thick fog of dust billowing down the street that swallowed up the world, numbed the gunfire and crackle of flames, and turned the bedlam to something distant, something far, far away.
Content in this dirty cocoon, he laid his M9 pistol by his side and closed his eyes.
"What do you feel?" a voice asked.
Rourke snapped open his eyes and suddenly, insanely, thought the kid had said something. The dust was settling, layering everything in the shell hole in a fine, gray snow.
"What do you feel?" The voice was louder now, but soothing, like the voice of a priest comforting a mourner. It was coming through his headset. "Please answer my question."
"I feel . . ." Rourke snatched up the M9 and scanned the rim of the shell hole. "Who are you? Where are you?"
"I am your medic."
Rourke stiffened. A talking medic? Impossible. True, they said you'd feel some kind of mental connection, like part of your mind had been numbed. But hear something. Insane. Every time the DoD audited Ingencorp, the results were always the same. Ingencorp wasn't breaching its genetic development license in any way. The brains did what they were supposed to do: monitor injuries, provide emergency life support, and intercept pain signals in the spinal cord before redirecting them to their own pain receptors.
The medic's onboard computer controlled it.
They couldn't talk. They couldn't reason. They couldn't think.
It had to be something else, some shock trauma or side effect of whatever the medic was pumping into him. Either that, or Ingencorp had broken their license and modified the medics, added some automated pre-recorded talk application that enabled the onboard computer to comfort the wounded? If so, it was a true work of genius.
He sank back into the rubble and stared up at the sky. "What are you?" He choked back a laugh. This was madness, like talking to a toy.