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32

Clamshell doors opened in back of the drop ship before the lift had time to settle. The unmistakable stench of burnt flesh wafted out along with high-pitched wails from voices inside. I pulled down the visor of my environment suit and tightened the seal. Here we go.

A pair of Thuban medics hopped out with the first stretcher, an old-fashioned hand-carried job without the high-tech repulsor lifts and vital-sign monitors we had in the Med Corps. It was simple, functional, and sturdy, exactly what a military medevac team would need.

We converged on the ship and began bringing out patients in pairs. This batch was all Reticulan, easily carried by the hulking Thubans. I let the big guys do the heavy lifting and immediately got to work on our patients, hurrying down the line of beds to check their triage tags. Instead of color-coding, since we couldn’t know which beings could perceive which spectra, they’d ranked everything by number. “3” needed minimal treatment and would go to the civvies, “2” would be for non-life-threatening injuries, while anybody tagged “1” needed immediate treatment. “0” was dead or close to it. All of our victims were tagged 1 with more than a few rapidly on the way to 0.

As expected, there were a lot of third-degree burns and radiation poisoning. Three of the Thuban medics walked through the rows of beds, waving survey meters above our patients and recording the levels from each. The meters’ chirping sounded like a chorus of crickets echoing through the hangar.

We had a lot of crush injuries as well. Broken limbs, internal injuries, and more than a few missing appendages.

The remaining medics each took a row of beds and began making their rounds, first hooking up IV fluids and pushing pain meds to whoever could tolerate it. There weren’t many who couldn’t, other than a few in respiratory distress. Those were taken straight upstairs to the ship’s sick bay.

I weaved between rows, checking on the Grays who looked to be in particular trouble. One had third-degree burns over almost half his body, from the waist down. A quick pass of the transducer showed signs of blistering in his airway. His lungs sounded raspy, like sandpaper. “What’s your name, buddy?”

Already confused from his injuries, he was even more surprised to see a human tending to him. Garak. Even telepathically, he sounded shaky.

I kept an eye on his vitals and started talking to him like I would any other patient. “Hi, Garak. I’m Mel. We’re going to do our best here for you, okay? Try to relax.” I felt for the handful of Reticulan probes in my trauma bag, but one look at his charbroiled groin made it clear their preferred delivery system wasn’t going to work. His pulse was thready and his blood pressure was starting to fall precipitously. Even with the mask, O2 saturation was barely hovering at eighty percent. Reticulans could tolerate lower sats than humans, but not that low for long.

I waved over a pair of Thuban orderlies. “This one’s in respiratory distress. He needs to go upstairs right now,” I said in a low voice. It wasn’t my place to say, but the docs would probably have to amputate his legs as well. We exchanged knowing looks as they carried him away.

Every patient we saw suffered from some variation of the same injuries, it was only a matter of extent. The ones who were on the edge were sent upstairs, with a constant rotation of orderlies running for the elevators. In short order we’d probably filled half of their sick bay’s beds. We had a couple dozen Grays left in the hangar, all miserable but stable.

Another warning siren blared as the heavy-equipment lift began to descend. Another transport had arrived.

Burn injuries are the worst. Imagine what’s happening to a steak on the grill or a chicken in the fryer; now imagine that’s you. Third-degree burns are especially gruesome; that means the flesh has been cooked down through the fatty layers. Burns that deep over only one percent of a human body are considered severe, and it doesn’t take much more for them to become life-threatening.

I stripped off my mask and wiped at my brow as the next drop ship was raised into the hangar. Clamshells opened, and more Thubans emerged carrying litters of what looked like roasted lobsters . . . 

Oh. Gliesans. I know that lobster analogy sounds horribly callous, but dear God were they in bad shape. Their milky white exoskeletons had been turned red, with many of their limbs curled up at awkward, brittle angles. More than a few were missing eyestalks.

I can’t explain why I felt so emotional at the sight of beings which had once triggered every imaginable insect phobia, plus a few I’d probably made up. A whole clan of them had put themselves at risk to drag me out of a deep hole in the ground, because I had done the same for their kind. All for simply doing my job.

I ran to the ship as more Gliesans were carried out into the hangar. A few random passes with my transducer over the first row of patients showed they were in fact still alive and stable, apparently in a self-induced torpor in reaction to trauma. The outsides of their shells were literally cooked, and all of them were spiking the rad meters. I looked to the other medics, who signaled they were all seeing the same thing.

I put my scanning gear away and spoke up to the group. “All right. Every one of these guys is going into oxygen therapy, stat.” They stared at me as their translators skipped over that last bit. “That means ASAP. Right freaking now.”

We all started picking up stretchers full of burned Gliesans and followed Chonk through an open door. It looked like a supply room, where he and a few Thuban mechanics had been busy clearing the equipment racks. It was perfect. We carefully stacked our litters along the empty shelves, thankfully with room left over. Two Gliesan medics scurried in behind us, and we shoved a crate full of those silver-plated bandages in behind them. A Thuban mechanic closed the hatch and began pressurizing the compartment until the medics inside signaled for him to stop.

Those little guys were tough, and I had high hopes for every one of them to recover. If only the rest of our runs could’ve been that easy.


The drop ships began to arrive with a regular cadence; I found out that they were all on the flight deck, waiting for their turns on the lifts. As soon as we’d finish offloading one wave, the next would arrive.

The hours went by in a blur. Check tags, take vitals, administer meds, move on to the next. This assembly line was interrupted by the occasional field amputation, a procedure with which the Thubans were distressingly efficient. Combat medics, I kept having to remind myself.

It was almost a relief when another shipload of Gliesan victims was unloaded, as they remained fairly straightforward. After a couple of hours our makeshift hyperbaric chambers were filled with them, most recovering quite well on their own. A Gliesan medic told me even their eyestalks would grow back over time.

A few didn’t make it, too badly burned to survive. They were literally roasted in their shells. The stench made me queasy to the point of throwing up a couple of times—not that it was repulsive, quite the opposite. It was too much like the smell of stone bugs roasting on the grill at Wayside. I wondered how many Thubans would be swearing off that dish forever after today. I certainly was.

Every bed in our ward had been filled, all of them Reticulans. At that point, we were faced with the dreadful task of deciding which level 1 patients needed to give up their beds for new arrivals. If it didn’t look like they’d make it, to the floor they went. It was an odd and depressing combination: Level 2 patients had already been relegated to sitting on the floors, lined two or three deep along the hangar walls. Now they were being joined by level 1’s who were going to die. The Grays are highly disciplined beings, but even the most stoic must have recoiled at that thought. I could only imagine what they were saying to each other telepathically.

I followed Chonk into a storage room off the hangar, stripped away my mask, and collapsed beside him on the floor. We sat together in luxurious silence for several minutes. I might even have slept a little.

Chonk eventually nudged me back into reality. “How doing?”

“Tired,” I whispered. “Very, very tired.”

He handed over a bottle of electrolyte juice to jolt me awake. I downed it in one long gulp and rested my head against the wall.

“You strong. Do well. Has been long day.”

I checked my watch. The first drop ship had arrived six hours ago, the Thuban cruiser was full, and there was still work to do. More ships would be coming. “It has. And we’re not done yet.”

“No,” he said sadly. “Are not. Very bad.”

“Any word from Bjorn?” I’d been too busy to keep in touch with him.

“More ships arriving. Second Th’u’ban cruiser. Med Corps hospital ship from capital, bring many with it. More transports, more beds.”

“Good. Maybe someone else can take over.” Not that I’d been doing much in that role since first getting our plan in motion. Bjorn must have been up to his eyeballs in their command center.

“Jarra came with. Is on-scene commander now. Needs status report.”

I suppose that was a relief. What was I going to tell her? Thanks for coming, welcome to the shitshow. Somehow I could sense her displeasure from here.

Chonk stood and helped me to my feet. I surprised him with a long, tight hug. “Thanks, my friend.”


The control center was in much the same state as which we’d left it, but with a very tired Bjorn slouched behind an empty console. The Thuban commodore stalked the room with his claws clasped behind his back, watching the evacuation progress on the surrounding holoscreens.

He acknowledged us with a curt nod. Bjorn stood to meet us.

“How are conditions down below?”

“About what you’d expect,” I said, before realizing he wouldn’t have had any idea what to expect. He’d been attached to the Med Corps to be my case officer; the training was a side benefit. “It’s under control,” I finally said. “Overcrowded, but we’re handling it. There’s no room for any more patients, though.”

“More relief is on the way. Transports from all over the Union are arriving. The commodore has them holding in rectilinear halo orbits, out of harm’s way until we need them.”

Not for the first time, I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about. It made more sense to see it depicted on screen. A whole daisy-chain of ships moved slowly in a wide oval around an empty point in space, far enough away that we could only see them as icons from their transponder beacons. It looked like a string of pearls, with ones regularly breaking off to make their way toward what was left of Tanaan. The planet itself had become a boiling cauldron, barely held together by the collective gravity of its fragments.

“Where’s the Med Corps? Chonk said we had a ship en route.”

Bjorn swiped at his holoscreen, shifting the point of view. “The hospital ship is in a common orbit with us, offset one hundred twenty degrees ahead. The other Thuban cruiser is in the same orbit, one hundred twenty degrees behind. This gives us complete coverage of the planet with direct line-of-sight communication.”

“Pick up any new distress calls, then?”

He shook his head sadly. “Not for several hours. We are moving into recovery operations. Jarra has requested a report.”

I plopped into an empty seat beside him. “Sure. Let’s talk.”


“Excellent work, Melanie,” Jarra said, though I couldn’t shake a certain sense of displeasure from her. “You have given us cause to examine our response plans once this event is behind us.”

That might take a while. Losing Tanaan had eliminated a third of the Union’s supply of an element that was crucial to their mobility. Interstellar travel was about to become a lot more expensive, and a lot less frequent.

“How long have you been on duty?”

Continuously, or just since we got here? Her slit mouth tipped into a tight frown. Damn it. She’d heard my thoughts. “It’s been almost seven hours since the first evacuees arrived. We were evaluating the scene and putting plans together before that. Honestly, ma’am, I haven’t thought about it.”

On screen, I saw her turn to a subordinate and think orders at him. The room behind her was filled with more Grays. Tanaan was one of their worlds, and they’d taken this disaster personally. She turned back to face me. “Perhaps you should. It has been at least forty-two hours since your shift ended, though your proper time reference is no doubt a good deal less. We will make the necessary adjustments when you return. You are relieved. Jarra out.”

The screen flashed blank.

I turned to Bjorn in confusion. “Am I in trouble? Because that sounds like I’m in trouble.”

He laughed. “Perhaps. You missed your last two shifts.”

I looked at my watch. “That can’t be. I . . . aw, hell.” Friggin’ Einstein, again. “How fast were we going?”

“Enough to make you miss work twice, apparently.”

Shift work was hard enough without your personal clock moving at a different rate than your boss’s clock. She’d told me to help, and I hadn’t taken that to mean staying in the hangar back at HQ. I rubbed at my forehead with the heels of my hands. “They can take it out of my pay.”

Bjorn removed his earpiece ceremoniously and placed it on the console. “Come, let us find some food.”

“That sounds—”

Melanie.

A ghostly voice at the back of my mind, like when you think someone has called your name but nobody’s there. “Yes?”

It was more distinct this time. Melanie.

“Xeelix?”

Bjorn turned to me in surprise. I tapped a finger on my forehead, not knowing how else to indicate someone was thinking at me.

Yes. I am relieved you can hear me.

I closed my eyes in concentration. Where are you? I wondered if you’d show up.

I am on the surface, at the southern production control center.

I grabbed Bjorn and spun him back around to the open console, wildly gesturing for him to log back in. “Xeelix is down there,” I whispered harshly. “Find him!”

You will not be able to locate me. I have lost my identification ring.

“He’s lost his ID ring,” I told Bjorn, who got to work trying to isolate Xeelix’s personal signal. Hang on, we’re looking for it. Do you think it’s close by?

I am afraid it is gone, along with my right hand.

“What?” I blurted out. Your hand—

Severed by rockfall from an erupting vent. The surrounding area was consumed by lava flow not long thereafter. I made it to high ground. If you do isolate my ring, it has most likely been carried far from my location. Can you spare a transport?

Surrounded by molten rock and missing a hand, Xeelix still managed to be polite. “He asked us to send a ship,” I told Bjorn. “What do we have?”


We grabbed Chonk and ran back down to the flight hangar. After a hurried conversation with a Thuban pilot, we clambered aboard a drop ship and were headed for the surface within minutes.

By now Tanaan had devolved into a loosely formed ball of molten rock interspersed with islands of solid ground. The poles had remained mostly intact, but they were increasingly being deformed by localized eruptions. With any useful signal from Xeelix’s ring now long gone, our pilot flew us in a wide circle around the south polar complex.

“Xeelix said he was on high ground,” I hollered at the pilot from my seat. The drop ship was loud, missing the swank interiors I’d become used to in favor of simple military functionality. Their machines hadn’t been crafted with human-sized occupants in mind, and weren’t particularly comfortable either. I held tight to the restraint bars, feeling like a toddler who’d snuck aboard a roller coaster and was seriously regretting her life decisions. “Look for hills, tall buildings, anything above the—”

There was that tickle in the back of my mind again. Melanie.

Yes! We’re here! Where are you?

I see your vehicle. Tell the pilot I am off his left wing, and to maintain his turn rate. I am on top of a promontory, overlooking the complex.

“He’s off your left wing!” I shouted. “He said to keep your turn rate.”

Chonk relayed the command for me, and answered with the Thuban version of a thumbs-up.

Good. You are pointed almost directly at me. Stop turning and fly straight ahead.

“He says stop turning! Fly straight!”

Excellent. You are perhaps half a kilometer away. Your pilot should perhaps slow down now.

Xeelix just might polite himself to death one of these days, but it wasn’t going to be today if we could help it. I wriggled out from under the restraint bar and clambered up into the cockpit behind Chonk. I had to pull myself up to see outside, feeling even more like a toddler out of her depth. “He said we’re almost on top of him, half a kilometer.”

“Heard,” Chonk said, and nodded toward the pilot who deftly manipulated a pair of control levers on either side of his seat. “Pilot thinks he see.”

I stood on a railing behind Chonk’s back for a better view, hoping I hadn’t accidentally kicked something important, like an ejection seat. On a jagged outcropping overlooking what was left of the production buildings lay a small form in a tattered yellow environment suit. That was our guy.

The pilot slowly pulled into a hover and opened the rear clamshell doors. I was about to jump out when Bjorn grabbed my arm. “Lower gravity, Melanie. You must move deliberately. Take it easy.”

Right. Careful steps. I dropped in slow motion to the ground. Walking was infuriatingly slow, like moving through water.

Xeelix propped himself up on his good arm, too weak to talk. It is good to see you both. He studied my face with those deep, penetrating eyes. You look tired, Melanie.

“Nice to see you too, Doc. And you look like shit.” We lifted him together and carried him into the waiting drop ship. Chonk signaled the pilot, who closed up the door and began pulling away, leaving the decaying hell of Tanaan behind.

We laid Xeelix onto a gurney and I began cutting away his suit, while Bjorn fit a fresh breathing mask over his face and started taking vitals with the transducer.

I examined his arm. The point at which his hand was severed had been crudely cauterized. I shot him a questioning look.

I had to stop the bleeding, and had used up my tourniquets on others. There was no shortage of heat sources, thankfully.

“Thankfully,” I repeated under my breath. He’d cauterized his own wrist on a lava rock. My stomach turned at the thought.

The injuries extended well beyond where the hand had been severed, with ugly purple bruises spreading above his elbow. I ran the transducer over his arm to check internal pressure. I was worried about compartment syndrome, which was a danger in humans who’d suffered crush injuries. Reticulan anatomy was similar enough—if the fascia surrounding his muscles were stretched too much, it could cause enough swelling to stop blood flow. If left untreated, it could kill the underlying muscle tissue and nerve endings. Even with their advanced medicine, at that point the only treatment was amputation.

I know what you must do, Melanie. I can guide you. He pointed at his forearm. Start your incision here. End it here, below the elbow joint.

I pulled the plasma scalpel from my trauma bag and made small talk as I calibrated it, more to calm myself than Xeelix. He was unflappable, as usual. “I don’t get it. How are you even here in the first place?”

With age comes enhanced telepathic sensitivities, and I am quite old, even by Reticulan standards. I sensed great trouble. When I learned of the first emergency signals, I arranged for transport. The crew did not elect to stay with me.

That was understandable, if maybe a bit cowardly. “So you stayed down here, made sure the survivors were evacuated.”

For a time. Trust me, I did not intend to remain. I am sure the others thought I’d been lost to the eruption that caused this injury. It did not help that I was unconscious for some time. I do not blame them. Nor should you.

Fixing blame was the last thing on my mind now; it was time to fix Xeelix’s arm before he lost it. Bjorn administered the pain meds, and I got to work.


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