POV Call Sign: Leather Apron

POV Unit Type: corpuscler

THE BOSS HAS A BIT OF A FETISH HE DOES. Likes everything to be just so. And especially neat and clean. So when I finally clear quarantine—which is ridiculous considering we’d already dashed all the way from the recovery bay to the launch platform without a cleansing, if any of us were carrying anything infectious we’ve all got it now—I stopped by the Common Area and indulged in a long, cold shower.

All of three minutes—one of the perks that comes with being a corpuscler is we get extra cleanliness water allotments, and I am always quick to allow myself to enjoy the pleasure. The water was not quite icy enough for my tastes but it was still luxurious.

The Boss though, has a sharp sense of smell and keen senses of detection. Especially when it comes to hygiene.

Which is why after my near-ice-shower, I give my hands a good wash with soap. Medical grade. This too comes with the territory and I do like my indulgences. After the third wash my hands are clean enough even the Boss will be satisfied.

Not that I’ll be touching him. Oh no, I like my hands where they are, attached to my wrists, and have no desire for that to change.

I change into scrubs—sterilized, of course—and I make sure to have my surgical mask fit snug, it won’t do to breathe on the Boss.

Ah, for the first time in far too long, it feels delightful to be clean again. They say clothes make the man and having changed into my medical garb I am filled with a sensation of deep satisfaction.

As much as I love my work on the battlefield, and believe in its purpose, I will never miss the stink and the grime of it.

Slinging my bitch tits over my shoulder I quickly make my way through the The Good Shepherd leaving the Commons and going to the medical ward where the Boss runs the infirmary.

Not surprisingly he is in surgery treating the heavy casualties from Tranquility and will be for some time. He is not alone. The infirmary teems with activity. Most, if not all, of our all-too-few-remaining traumists are deep in their work, treating the wounded. Many of my fellow corpusclers assist them.

A few call out in greeting, and I respond in kind. But most are far too busy to pay me mind. Which is how I like it—they are focused on saving lives and my being here will only get in their way.

I stop long enough to queue a message for the Boss, letting him know that I will wait for him in his office and leave the infirmary.

His office is a short walk away and the sounds of the hustle and bustle of treating the wounded quickly fade.

Lined up in the corridor outside of the Boss’ office there are already a handful of patients waiting to see him. None of them critical, or they would be triaged and awaiting treatment in the infirmary. All of them from the younger generation, the Incels, the oldest of them no more than twenty-five, the youngest perhaps seventeen.

I’ve worked for the Boss longer than most of these kids have been alive and I seem to have made a name for myself among the younger generation, for they immediately recognize me as the Boss’ corpuscler.

Clearly, they would much rather deal with Whitechapel.

Of course these kids don’t call the Boss, the Boss. They call him Whitechapel like everyone else does.

In addition to his duties as a traumist, Whitechapel is the Chief Medical Officer and a member of Senior Management. He is also an elder of the ship, from the Great Generation, who gave us so much.

And I, his (infamous???) corpuscler, am from the Ruined Generation.

The temperature in the corridor drops several degrees. There is no love lost between the Incels and the generation that came before them. For those of us trained to recognize the signs you can feel their immediate discomfort at being around someone my age.

I lower my surgical mask, and give them my professional smile. The one that I have spent countless hours mastering to put someone at ease in my presence.

I unlock the door to Whitechapel’s office and usher them inside.

Fastidious in the extreme, the anteroom of the Boss’ office is an austere place. The walls are windowless and coated a soothing hospital white. There is a low couch but I do not motion for the youngsters to sit, nor do I myself.

Now their discomfort at my presence shifts, ever so slightly. They are still uncomfortable but it is no longer me that is making them so.

One of them gives the smallest shrug I have ever seen.

Ahh, of course, of course! Immediately I realize why they are here. They are looking to buy supplemental medications. Something beyond whatever war planning and their algorithms have allocated them.

Surprisingly, they are not here for stimulants or recreational drugs.

They want anti-C’s (anti-contamination blockers). And not because they are afraid of ambient exposure from the cracked space fold drives of The Good Shepherd (but they should be!).

Out of their builders I didn’t recognize them, but they are vurkers. They’ve been assigned to a work detail on one of the clean up crews mitigating the contamination in the engine room.

Contamination is scary stuff, I can see why they would risk an off license trade to get increased protection.

I’m sure their crew chiefs will be rotating the vurkers to keep their accumulated exposure to an absolute minimum.

But they’re not buying the anti-C’s because they’re worried about exposure. They’re buying them so they can stay in the danger zone longer, work more hours, clear more objectives.

You could argue they’re doing it to cheat the Algorithm. Since the sales are off license and there’s no record of their having them they’re certain to over perform against whatever the war planning algorithms are expecting of them.

The Algorithm loves to reward hard work. Over performing will earn them some contribution points towards the survival effort. Those contribution points will increase their rankings in the Algorithm, making them more likely to get bonus allotments of energy/material in the future. It’s a virtuous cycle, the more you work the more you’re rewarded.

But the truth is those vurker crews are tight. And their teamwork is commendable. They’re not bingeing on the anti-C’s to get ahead in the rankings. I’m sure their crew chiefs will be rotating the vurkers, but the simple truth is they face the same shortages as the rest of us. It’s for certain that some of the guys on their crew aren’t going to have proper protection. So they’re using their spare energy/material to keep those weak links’ exposure to a minimum.

Good taking care of. When I was their age I wouldn’t have done what they were doing.

I sell them the anti-C’s at a ridiculously low price—I doubt we’ll ever solve the generation gap, but at least we can try—and give them instructions on their usage. Then courtesy of the house I double the number of anti-C’s I give them and tell them not to be stingy if anyone else needs one.

Then I usher them out of the office. More than a little impressed. Good kids.

Not just the Boss’ but all of our traumist’s surgical decisions and medical allotments and treatments are allocated by the Algorithm.

If we had unlimited energy and material, we could likely restore everyone aboard to optimal health. It’s not a question of skill, technology or even time. It’s funding.

In my younger, edgier days, I would’ve said fuck the Algorithm. But now?

Alas, this is the real world, and I very much live in it. Where energy and material are finite and highly in demand resources, and like the rest of The Good Shepherd, the entire medical department operates on a very tight energy/material budget.

Therefore, the greater part of our medical care, procedures and medications are rationed according to a strict and constantly updated system, based upon the current needs and strategy of the military war planners, balanced with our current and projected requirements and remaining stores of energy and material.

There is, of course, allowances for slippage, human error and emergencies.

Fleet and the Light are aware of this, and possibly even encourage the Boss to manage a private pool of medical resources outside of the system, as he sees fit.

And then there is also outright fraud.

We do a brisk business trading non-essential or non-budgeted medicines and treatments to those with the personal energy/material resources to pay.

Off license of course.

The Boss, in his own complex way, is not a heartless fellow. There are some—too many!—aboard The Good Shepherd who are categorized as Useless by the Algorithm. The young, the infirm, the weak. Any who the Algorithm predicts require more energy/material to heal than they can contribute back to the overall survival effort.

Many of those classified as Useless require medical attention to live. The Boss helps those he can, as best he can.

Though, as in all things, there are limits to what he can accomplish working within the system. The Boss funds his extracurricular humanitarian charities with the proceeds from off license exchanges such as this.

My good deed for the day done, I settle into the couch. I know it will take some time for the Boss to finish treating the wounded from Tranquility. The fighting had been severe and the wounded are many.

Time is never on our side. And though the Boss and I are under an extreme time constraint there is nothing to do now but wait.

So I do.