
HER LIVING TRIBUTE
  by Thomas Nevin Huber

  Julie Stollack didn't like public appearances, and as a wounded
veteran of a minor skirmish -- at least, that's how she considered 
it -- she disliked them even more.

  But that wouldn't and couldn't stop her from visiting the Drac 
Hall of Space, where her family's memories were forever entombed. She 
thought bitterly about her own fate as she rode the transitube toward 
her destination, her heavy war cloak covering her from public scrutiny.

  It started while she commanded the ADF Waken. An Intruder attack, 
and her fateful meeting with one of their race had left her without 
her right arm. Relieved of duty, she returned to Al-zed, where two 
attempts were made to give her a new arm. It practically killed her. 
For all the glories of modern medicine, they couldn't give her back 
what she had lost.

  But that wasn't all she'd lost. She discovered what her precious
society thought about people like her. Never mind that she'd nearly
given her life. Never mind that she'd lost the ability to do some
things for herself. It didn't matter that she'd been in the line of
duty when it happened. Society didn't care about any of that. To them,
she was a cripple, someone they did not want around.

  She was shocked when she learned of Lake Charles and the Silent Bay
colony. She'd always thought of it as a place where veterans went for
recuperation. Now she knew better, and she knew that she had little time 
left before she, a PwD -- a person with a disposability -- would make a 
one-way trip to that awful place.

  That was where Drac society dumped its physically "incurable." They
wouldn't perform euthanasia, but they would keep them out of the way.
Drac society, it seemed, didn't want to be exposed to someone different. 
They had done the same thing with The Pits -- the place where the poor 
lived below the shining facade of Al-zed, buried forever in darkness, in 
a society separate from the rest of them.

  And now, she knew she would face Silent Bay, where anyone missing an
appendage -- whether it be arm or leg, hand or foot, toe, finger or eye
-- was sent to live out the rest of their lives. It was a prison worse
than the worst prison, because no one cared about the inmates. They just 
dropped them off, and left them there on their own.

  And that would happen to her.

  The transitube pulled to a stop a short distance from the Hall of
Space. The building was a magnificent tribute to those that had gone
before -- those that ventured into space in thin-skinned vessels that
barely held a breathable atmosphere. Those that experimented with new
forms of power and propulsion. And those that found their way to the
stars with the Star Drive and the Clarisse Power Plant.

  She walked slowly through the crowds. She couldn't avoid them -- 
not in a city of over 25 million. Someone bumped into her and recognized 
that she was somehow different. Whispers spread around her as people
stopped and stared.

  She walked on, determined to reach the gates to the Hall, and a 
reprieve of sorts. Someone plucked at her cloak on her right side, but 
she ignored the vermin that violated her space.

  "She's one of them," someone else whispered.

  "A PwD," another said in a distasteful tone.

  A big man stepped between her and her destination, now only a half-
block away. He looked angry as he snarled, "What are you doing here?"

  She tried to step around him, but he blocked her way. Another person
grabbed her by the shoulders. She thought on the matter -- should she
defend herself?

  "Lay off," she warned. "I'm an active member of the ADF. Do not block
my way."

  The big man stepped to one side, but the hands didn't release her. 
She turned on her tormentor.

  "I said, lay off!" Her voice carried the weight of her command rank
and she expected the man to release his grip.

  He did, but wasn't ready for his next move. "It's hot, Captain," he
said with a sinister voice. "Let me help you off with your war cloak."

  "No," she started, but before she could pull away, he had unfastened
its single latch and pulled it free.

  The sleeveless duty uniform revealed her stump to the crowd. They
backed away, amidst cries of anguish -- all of them -- leaving her
standing in an ever-widening circle of open pavement.

  "I'm not contagious," she called after them as she realized what 
was happening. Society believed that she was carrying some terrible
disease that made her the way she was.

  Old habits die hard as she gestured with both hands -- or tried to. 
The crowd stared dumbfoundedly as she moved the stump. "To Ragnoruk 
with all of you," she cursed and then retrieved her dropped cloak. The
deadly prison planet wasn't good enough for them.

  Awkwardly pulling on her cloak, she turned and advanced on the Hall.
Cries of "cripple" and "PwD" assailed her ears, yet no one blocked her
path. "Go live in Silent Bay."

  "E-vil, e-vil," someone started chanting. Damn, but she hated these
people.

  By the time she reached the gates, her face was flushed with anger.
She felt something hit her leg. It was a stone. She turned and eyed
the crowd. People were milling a safe distance from her. Some were
shaking their fists, others were yelling obscenities.

  "They always seem to congregate around here," the guard at the gate
said. He had a nasty-looking weapon in his hand. "Go in, Captain.
You'll be safe there."

  She'd visited the Hall before, as a way of honoring her family. But 
it had never been like this. Raggie! She hadn't been this way before,
either. She found a bench and sat, looking back at the entrance. The 
guard was speaking into a comm set, possibly calling in the disturbance.
Attacking an officer of the ADF was a severe offense.

  It was hot in her cloak. She couldn't deny that. But if she took 
it off, what would people say? More of the same, even here?

  She looked around. That hall wasn't deserted, but it wasn't as 
crowded as the streets outside, either. She rubbed her eyes with her 
left hand and then stood. Raggie! she swore again, and headed for the
amphitheater.

  At least it was dark and she could sit and watch without the cloak 
on. She shrugged it off, as best she could and then sat silently.

  The big projection area in the center was portraying one of her
ancestor's roles - it was her grandfather. His rugged features had
been part of her life until about ten years earlier, when he and her
father had lost their lives, fighting an unknown foe in space.

  Why couldn't she have gone that way? Now she sat miserably, fighting
off phantom pain, and closed her eyes.

  During the next several hours, she dozed in and out of dreamland. 
Her own past experiences mingled with those portrayed a few dozen yards 
in front of her. Someone sat next to her, but she didn't turn.

  Crowd noises grew more intense. She opened her eyes a bit. It was 
the Demtris riots. Another period of "cleansing" when they wanted to 
wipe out social problems. The only way they knew how to do it was to
permanently alter the offenders. And Demtris had fought back, and won.

  If she could be like him. But how? He had violated state-mandated 
laws of treason. He had spoken in his own defense at his own trial. But 
she had no such avenue. She had broken no oath of allegiance. She wasn't
facing a death penalty for violating the state.

  The crowds were chanting "Demtris, Demtris." She closed her eyes for 
a moment. The chants turned to "cripple, cripple." She felt the crowd
advancing, and a sweat broke out on her upper lip. She reached to wipe
it away with her right hand, but failed.

  They're coming for me, she thought in terror. They're going to take 
me away. Tears ran from her closed eyes because she would never see this
great hall again. The final resting place for her ancestors would be
taken from her.

  Someone jostled her and she lashed out.

  "Whoa, Captain," a strangely familiar voice spoke from nearby.

  She blinked her eyes open, and turned to stare at Admiral Scott, 
her commanding officer. "What?" she asked, confused.

  "You were having a bad dream, Captain." The Demtris case was still
playing out in the projection area.

  She blinked at Scott. "Oh," she said in a small voice. "Sorry, sir. 
I didn't know you visited here - during duty hours."

  "I don't, Captain, but they called me when they recognized you."

  "You, you came for me?"

  "Yes. I have an assignment for you."

  Stollack felt terrible. An empty pit opened up in her stomach. This 
was it -- this was her final time among the Dracs that she knew and 
served. Now it would be a life in some remote spot somewhere on Al-zed. 
Silent Bay on Lake Charles, they called it. Silence, where the Dracs 
could not hear or see, or feel . . . .

  "Captain," Scott repeated a little louder. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded numbly.

  "Then, what is wrong?"

  "Wrong?" she woke up at that question. "What is wrong?"

  He nodded from his seat. "Yes, that is my question."

  "How can you have the audacity to ask me that? Look at me? What do 
you see?"

  "I see a Captain of the line, Captain." Scott's voice didn't waver.

  She swallowed, then her anger built again. "And what do you call
this?" She waved her stump around in a circle. That was about all she
could do with it.

  "Immaterial, Captain!"

  "What!?"

  "I said your stump is immaterial. You are what is important. And you
will continue to serve the ADF, not at Silent Bay, or at Lake Charles,
or any other isolation facility. Not ever!"

  She stared at him, hardly believing her ears. "I'm not being consigned
to Silent Bay?"

  "No."

  "But . . ." She swallowed again. "What about those that are? The ADF
can isolate me while I serve on a ship . . . ."

  "Or at a military base."

  "Or at a military base," she repeated, "but not all of them are
military, sir."

  Admiral Scott sighed and looked old for a moment. "I understand,
Captain," he said. "But now, there are the beginnings of a political
movement to right that wrong. It will take time, and like your
ancestors before you, you will prove to society that you can continue
to perform your duties, despite the impossible odds."

  "Society won't change," Stollack said bitterly.

  "No, not this society, but some future society will be different,
Captain. Some society will look at you, sitting here - projected in
down there," he pointed down to the center of the theater, "and they
will watch you and I have this little talk. And then they will see
you, in space, serving their ancestors, as a proud warrior, not some
broken cripple."

  Stollack considered his words. Yes, it had been like that before, 
when Dracs had first dared cross an ocean to discover a new land and
understood a little more about their world; when they had ventured
beyond the speed of sound, and understood a little more about the
nature of physics; and when they ventured into space and beyond the
speed of light, and understood a little more about the nature of the
universe.

  Yes, she could do that. It would be her way of bringing honor to 
those that went before. A living tribute to her ancestors and to the 
spirit of all veterans.

                                 ---

   (Author's note: The PwD definition is intentional. We use 
    the term to mean person with a disability, but for the 
    Dracs, it meant something else.)

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Thomas Nevin Huber
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Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers 
since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical writer for a 
major computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include 
numerous user, installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles. 
Hobbies include genealogy and running his bbs. Look for a major series of SF 
novels, prerelease title, STAR SPAWN. Many shorts are related to the series.
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