Chapter 3: Blowback

Boyd awoke to freezing cold, taking in a sharp breath of the frigid air and feeling a burning in his chest. His ears were ringing and he couldn’t remember where he was, did he have a concussion? He tried to sit up, but the pain was too great, and he collapsed backwards into the snow.

Snow?

As his vision cleared he saw a dark sky, snowflakes floating through the air, his breath freezing into clouds of sparkling crystals. His breathing was coming in wheezing gasps, something was wrong, the pain in his chest was severe. He craned his neck to look down at his body, his stomach lurching as he saw the wreck of the Zemchug a couple of hundred meters away. It was totaled, it had landed on its belly and ruptured like a ripe fruit, digging a crater and vaporizing all of the snow around it to reveal bedrock. There were pieces of it everywhere, how had he survived that wreck? Had he been thrown all the way over here?

His clothes were covered in the sticky, fire retardant foam, the disguise he had been wearing was charred and mostly burned away but his suit beneath seemed intact. He could feel all of his limbs, he could move his feet, that was a good sign. He tasted blood in his mouth, but besides the undiagnosed chest pain he seemed to be in one piece, a downright miracle.

He tried to get up again and succeeding in rising to a sitting position, one hand clutching his ribs as he looked around him. The wrecked ship was the only landmark he could see, the dark pillar of smoke it spewed rising high into the air, nothing around him but flat ice fields and snowdrifts as far as he could see. It was an ice moon then, the air seemed thin, it would be a good idea to try and find a respirator in the wreckage.

He stumbled to his feet, and almost collapsed, something was seriously wrong with him.

He unzipped his suit, despite the chilling cold, and examined his chest. A massive, ugly bruise with patches of red extended across his ribcage, he was becoming lightheaded. It wasn’t just the thin atmosphere, he must have taken a hit to the torso that had made one of his lungs collapse. He fumbled in his pocket for his first aid kit, a device about the size of a tablet computer, and threw it to the ground. He opened it up, searching for what he needed, and retrieved a small capsule shaped like the handle of a screwdriver from one of the many recesses that each contained a specialized medical implement. His suit doubled as a field kit, as compact and as advanced as the UNN’s research division could build it. He had a next-generation aid kit with a built-in medical assistant program that would be able to analyze his status through sensors embedded in the suit, and then suggest the best course of action. There was an energy cost to everything he did though, the Achilles heel of the equipment. If he made use of too many functions in too short a period of time, then he would drain the power cells that ran down the suits spine and then he wouldn’t have access to any of them.

He didn’t need the assistant for this, he would conserve the battery power, he had enough medical training to know what course of action needed to be taken here.

He withdrew his ceramic knife from his boot, and held it over his chest for a moment with a shaking hand, then plunged it into his flesh. He suppressed his cry of pain, pulling out the knife that was now red with his blood, and inhaled as the air drained from his chest cavity and allowed his lung to inflate. He took a couple of breaths, then pressed the canister against the wound, hitting a button on the top and letting it fill the hole with expanding medical gel. It would do for now, he had to keep moving.

He zipped up his suit and pocketed his kit, stumbling towards the wreckage, there were pieces of the ship all over the place but the main body seemed to be mostly intact. If any equipment had survived then that was where it would be.

The snow was fairly deep, and his suit was too thin to protect him against the cold, he was beginning to shiver which wasn’t a good sign. He raised his left wrist, activating a flexible touch-panel that was built into the sleeve, and it flickered to life. Good, the suit could draw energy from kinetic movement and convert it into electricity in order to charge the batteries, it seemed to have recharged enough to be usable. With shaking fingers he navigated the menus, finding the heating controls and activating them. He felt warmth across his body as the circuitry that spanned the suit overcharged, driving off the cold. The readout showed minus twenty degrees centigrade, without the suit he would have quickly died of exposure.

He clambered inside the wreckage, ignoring the sting that lingered in his chest, climbing over exposed structural beams that protruded from the ship like bones from a dead animal. He ducked under cables dangling from the ceiling and broken pipes spewing coolant. It was dingy, hard to see, his original respirator had a torch attachment but the syndicate had taken it. He needed another one if he was to survive, the atmosphere wasn’t deadly or he would never have woken up, but it was unlikely to be benign.

There should be respirators on racks in the cargo bay, or anywhere near an airlock, that would be the logical place to store them. They could be in equipment lockers too, and barring that, he would have to find one of the bodies of a crew member.

He had not been familiar with the layout of the vessel when it had been intact, and now that it was beached and ruined he was even more lost. The corridor that ran down the spine of the ship was broken and twisted, the metal becoming as pliable as putty when such massive and catastrophic forces were invoked. He found what he though to be an equipment locker, its door was ajar, this section of the wall almost at a ninety degree angle to the floor.

He climbed up, careful not to cut his hands on the jagged metal, and rummaged inside. There were personal effects here, photos of family members taped to the inside of the door that had somehow survived the heat and impact, a pair of shoes and some holographic media chips. These had belonged to someone, someone who was now certainly dead, but he didn’t have the time nor the desire to let himself start thinking in those terms. The mission above all.

He found what he was looking for, a rebreather than looked intact, and he reached behind his head to strap it over his mouth and nose. It had an internal battery but he plugged a cable from his suit into the charging port, it was worth the energy expenditure, he needed to breathe after all. He activated the device and breathed in a fresh lungful of oxygenated air, feeling his lightheadedness abate almost immediately, his thoughts becoming sharper and more focused. He should search the wreck for more supplies before he set out, he couldn’t stay here and hope for rescue, as syndicate ships would certainly be the first to the scene. He would need to find a way to triangulate his position and find the nearest outpost or base, there must be one, this moon seemed ideal for oxygen mining.

He heard a noise behind him, like scratching, and ducked to draw his ceramic knife from his boot as he spun to face the direction of the sound. It was coming from a cabin door, jammed half open by the impact, hardened flame retardant foam crumbling as black claws dug through them. He holstered his weapon and watched as Lorza tunneled her way under the door, her immaculate white fur now matted with solidified foam, and stained with dark blood. He didn’t offer her any help, she was too large and heavy for him to pull her free, and so he watched in silence as she succeeded in dragging her bulk out of the room and fell to her knees on the deck. One of her arms was hanging limp, the fur below the elbow discolored crimson. She seemed no worse for wear besides that injury, Borealans were incredibly tough. She rose unsteadily to her feet, leaning against the wall, and blinked her blue eyes drunkenly.

“What ... we’re alive? Where are we?”

“Looks like we both survived the impact but the ship is totaled. We need to secure what supplies we can and head out before someone comes looking.”

“Wait, wait,” she said, holding her head in her good hand, the other dangling unnaturally at her side. “We need to stay here, right? That’s what they say you’re supposed to do, wait for rescue.”

“The only ships that are going to come for us have much less charitable motivations, now find a pack and fill it up with as much useful gear as you can carry, find some rations too.”

“This is all your fault,” she snarled, flexing her claws and shooting him a hateful look. “What have you gotten us involved in? I have half a mind to break your damned legs and turn you over to whoever it is you pissed off back on Hades.”

“I would advise against that, they’ll kill anyone they find alive, no witnesses. If we’re lucky they won’t be able to identify all of the bodies and they’ll assume that I was killed, so they’re not likely to send a team out to find us.”

She spat an insult in Russian that he didn’t understand, then started to examine her broken arm.

“Damn it, at least the pain is keeping me alert, seems your crazy plan worked after all. We need to search the wreck for other survivors, I’m not going anywhere until everyone is accounted for.”

“Time is of the essence,” Boyd protested, “we need to-”

“You don’t get to talk, shut up,” she snarled. Her sharp teeth were bared and her ears were flat against her head. “Find the bodies, there will be five of them. If you leave before it’s done I’ll tell whoever comes after you where you went. Try to kill me, I dare you even injured you can’t take a Borealan.”

He wasn’t so sure of that, he had a lot of tricks up his sleeve that she wouldn’t be anticipating, but he thought it better to do as she requested. There should still be time before the syndicate were able locate their crash site and get a ship down here. She might yet be an asset to him, assuming she didn’t die from her injuries.

They set off in different directions, poring through the wreckage for any signs of life. The cockpit had crumpled when they had hit, the pilot and the captain were now little more then a red smear between the layers of crushed metal. One of the personnel had been thrown from the craft as Boyd had, but had landed a lot harder, their blackened body limp and twisted unnaturally.

Boyd was digging through what was left of the mess hall when he heard a faint voice, human, weak and almost inaudible. It crossed his mind to ignore it, severe injuries could not be treated with the tools at hand, and the Polar might slow them down trying to care for or carry what was now surely dead weight. Lorza stormed into the room though, her ears swiveling erratically as she tried to track the sound.

“Do you hear that? Someone is alive! I think it’s Alexei!” She called his name and they heard him reply, Lorza hurrying to the source of the voice. She tapped against the wall but couldn’t find any compartments or breaks, deducing that he must be on the other side, and dashed into the next room over. Boyd followed, peering through the door to see Lorza pulling the man from a crash couch, the harness having miraculously kept him intact despite the room around him having essentially disintegrated. He looked bad, he was unresponsive, delirious. She dragged him into the hall and then out into the snow, lying him down and cradling his head in her giant hand. She seemed upset, and so Boyd kept his distance, she would certainly see him as responsible for this.

She whispered to him in Russian, the man slowly coming to, reaching up a hand to grip her white fur in his fist. He seemed conscious, though his behavior implied a severe concussion.

“He’ll freeze,” she pleaded, “he needs a respirator and some warm clothes.”

Boyd held his tongue, the man likely had a bleed in his brain or a skull fracture and wouldn’t survive much longer, but he was eager to avoid conflict with Lorza for the time being. He set off into the wreck again to search for the items she had requested, and returned shortly after with a winter coat and another intact respirator. She wrapped the coat around him, the gesture pointless so many degrees below zero, and strapped the rebreather over his face.

“You know the ship better than me,” Boyd said, “go find as much food as you can and anything you think might be useful. Food, sleeping bags, clothes, weapons, tools, anything you can fit in a couple of backpacks. I’ll give Alexei a look over, I know first aid.”

She nodded, clearly panicked but happy to have something to occupy herself with, and left the downed geologist in the company of Boyd as she vanished into the ruined hull. He kneeled beside the man and looked him over, he was covered in abrasions and some rather deep wounds, but nothing that looked immediately life-threatening. The head injury was worrying however, there was a blanket of dried blood in his scalp that had made its way down one side of his face, the man’s eyes were unfocused and he seemed disoriented.

“Alexei, can you hear me? Don’t fall asleep, try to stay awake, can you speak?”

He coughed through the respirator, unresponsive, looking past Boyd as if he couldn’t see him. Not a good sign, but Boyd couldn’t use his first aid kit on the Russian, he needed to be wearing a suit with embedded sensors in order to run a diagnostic and work out what exactly was wrong with him. Boyd had nothing on hand that could treat a severe head injury, that would require surgery which he couldn’t provide.