Chapter 3: Blowback

Boyd awoke to freezing cold, taking in a sharp breath of frigid air that burned his lungs. His ears were ringing, and he couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened. Did he have a concussion? He tried to sit up, but the pain was too great, and he quickly collapsed back into a bed of snow.

Snow?

As his vision cleared, he saw a dark sky overhead, tiny snowflakes catching the light as they drifted through the air. His breath was freezing into puffs of sparkling ice crystals through his rebreather, a little warning icon in the corner of his visor blinking to alert him that the oxygen reserves had been depleted. Something was wrong, however. With each breath that he took, a searing pain shot through him, every twitch making his muscles ache. He felt like he had been beaten with lead pipes. 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. The ship had landed on its belly and ruptured like a ripe fruit, digging a crater and vaporizing all of the snow around it to reveal the naked bedrock beneath. A plume of smoke rose high into the sky above it, the surrounding area lit by crackling flames, casting dancing shadows as they painted the snowdrifts in eerie hues of orange. There were pieces of wreckage everywhere he looked – huge chunks of hull and unidentifiable machinery strewn all around him. How had he survived the crash? Had he been thrown all the way over here?

He was covered in the sticky, fire retardant foam, clumps of it clinging to his clothes. The disguise that he had been wearing was charred and mostly burned away, but the suit beneath it seemed intact, still reading positive pressure. He could feel all of his limbs, and he could move his fingers and toes – that was a good sign. He tasted blood on his tongue, but besides the undiagnosed pain that radiated through him, he seemed to be in one piece.

He tried to get up again, succeeding in rising to a sitting position, one hand clutching his ribs as he took in his surroundings. The wrecked ship was the only landmark that he could see. There was nothing around him but flat ice fields and snowdrifts extending all the way to the horizon. He remembered now – they had crashed on the moon of Hades. It must be an ice moon, then. The air seemed thin, but as long as his suit was functional, he should be alright. If the atmosphere here wasn’t breathable, he would never have woken up in the first place.

He stumbled to his feet, then dropped to a knee, catching himself just before he fell. Something was seriously wrong with him.

Despite the chilling cold, he reached down to unzip his suit, already beginning to shiver as he examined his exposed chest. A massive, ugly bruise extended across his ribcage on the left side, pocked with patches of red. His lightheadedness wasn’t just a result of the thin atmosphere – he must have taken some nasty hits during the crash.

If he didn’t hurry, the cold would make him unable to tie his own shoelaces, let alone treat a traumatic injury in the field. He raised his left wrist, activating the flexible touch panel that was built into the sleeve, tapping at it with an unsteady finger. His suit had as much tech as the UNN’s research division could cram into it, including an advanced onboard medical diagnostic system that could diagnose injuries through sensors embedded in his suit, then suggest a treatment. There was an energy cost to everything that he did, however. It was the Achilles heel of the technology. If he made use of too many functions in too short a period of time, he would drain the power cells that ran down the suit’s spine, and that would eat into his life support. Until he came up with a game plan, he might need every minute of heating and oxygen filtering that he could get, so he could only use these functions in an emergency.

The suit began to read his biometrics, reporting its findings, a diagnosis scrolling past on the glowing display. Contusions, hairline fractures, blunt force trauma – he must have been tossed around like a ragdoll. It was a miracle that he had no internal bleeding.

He fumbled for the first-aid kit in one of his pockets, retrieving a little pouch about the size of a tablet computer. With a shaking hand – he wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the cold – he removed the protective cap on a device roughly the size and shape of a screwdriver handle. It had a small compartment where payloads in capsule form could be inserted, Boyd searching his kit for the appropriate doses. He brought it to his chest, wincing as he pressed the device firmly against his bruised skin. With the press of a button, he activated it, Boyd stifling a grunt of pain through gritted teeth as it extended a tiny needle to pierce his skin. The concoction contained anti-inflammatories to stop the swelling, a powerful anesthetic to help him work through the pain, and a metabolic stimulant that would promote healing. His wounds would take days to heal, but he wasn’t in a position to rest.

Boyd took a few burning breaths as the drugs did their work, his thoughts already becoming sharper and more focused, the distracting pain diminishing to a dull background noise. It was a stopgap measure – not something that would hold for long, but he had to keep moving. Standing still with his suit open like this, he’d probably succumb to hypothermia. What he needed right now was shelter and to assess what supplies were available to him.

He zipped up his suit and pocketed his first-aid kit, stumbling in the direction of the wreckage. While there were pieces of the ship strewn all over the area, the main hull seemed to be mostly intact. If any equipment or supplies had survived the crash, that’s where they’d be.

Boyd trudged through the snow drifts, some of them deep enough to reach his knees, the heating elements in his suit barely keeping the cold at bay. Not knowing how long he’d been out or how long the suit’s life support systems had been keeping him from dying of exposure, he raised his display to check his battery, seeing that its charge was dwindling. It was expending as little power as possible to keep his vitals in check, but he couldn’t dig through the wreckage with stiff fingers. With a few taps, he raised the suit’s temperature, the circuitry that ran throughout its lining overcharging to flood it with invigorating warmth.

The Zemchug’s warped hull loomed above him as he entered its shadow, wreathed in choking smoke, lit from beneath by the flames that still burned in its spilled innards. Its structural beams had been exposed in places, the outer hull sloughing off them like skin from a carcass, giving it an eerily skeletal appearance. Ignoring the lingering ache in his muscles, he made his way deeper, ducking under dangling cables and broken pipes that were still spewing coolant onto the snow. It was dingy – hard to see more than a few feet in any direction, but he dared not expend the power to use his flashlight attachment.

He had not been very familiar with the layout of the vessel when it had been intact, and now that it was beached like a dead whale, 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 subjected to such massive and catastrophic forces. He found what he thought to be an equipment locker, its door ajar, this section of the wall raised 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.

Moving on, he tried to remember what the ship had looked like before the crash. The bridge would have been behind him – if it was still intact – and this was where the crew quarters and mess hall had been. Further ahead, he should find the shuttle bay and the cargo hold, which was likely where most of the useful supplies should be. That was, if they hadn’t been scattered across hundreds of kilometers like the contents of a giant pinata.

Lingering around the wreck for too long was a bad idea, as Syndicate ships would certainly beat any rescuers to the scene. There had to be outposts out here – maybe bases or drilling platforms. This moon would be perfect for ice mining, even moreso if there was a liquid ocean under all the snow. Water could be drunk, turned into oxygen for life support, and even hydrogen fuel for engines. He made his way carefully along the twisted corridor, feeling his way with each step, the metal groaning under his weight.

As he made his way towards what he thought was the shuttle bay, he heard a scratching noise. He ducked to retrieve his ceramic knife, spinning around to face the source of the sound, weapon at the ready. It was coming from a cabin door – now warped and jammed halfway open by the impact. Blobs of flame-retardant foam had seeped out through the gap, the hardened substance starting to crumble away as black claws dug their way through it. A furry arm emerged, its immaculate coat now matted with foam, stained red with splotches of blood. It was Lorza – Boyd holstering his blade. Once there was enough of an opening, she called out in Russian, then switched to English when there was no reply.

“Is someone out there?” she panted, her voice teetering on the edge of panic. “Please!”

For a moment, Boyd considered simply leaving her. She was a huge, clumsy creature who would surely slow him down, but something made him hesitate. He was by no means an honorable man – in fact, his profession often precluded honor. Still, she had taken a chance on him, and she had suffered for it. It was the least that he could do to help.

“Are you stuck?” he replied after a moment of hesitation. “You’re almost out – keep digging.”

There wasn’t much that he could do for her. She was too large and heavy for him to help pull her free, and she was far stronger than he was. She got herself most of the way out of the cabin, fragments of hardened foam scattering across the deck, but the door blocked her path. It was stuck fast, and she was too big to fit through the gap.

“You have to push it open,” Boyd advised.

Lorza loosed a grunt of effort, her frustration palpable, bracing her shoulder against the frame. She gave it a shove, then growled again, a second push making it creak. On the third attempt, it finally gave way, and she pushed through the last of the foam to fall to her knees in the corridor outside. One of her arms was hanging limp, the sleeve of her jumpsuit stained red beneath the elbow. She must have been injured during the crash. Besides that, she seemed none the worse for wear. Borealans were notoriously tough creatures. She rose to her feet unsteadily, leaning against the nearby bulkhead, blinking her blue eyes groggily.

“W-we are alive?” she stammered, almost as though she feared that he might correct her. “Where are we?”

“Looks like we both survived the crash, but the ship is totaled,” Boyd replied. She watched him in disbelief as he turned around, resuming his march to the cargo hold. “We need to secure what supplies we can, then get as far away from the wreck as possible before someone comes looking.”

“Wait, wait,” she muttered as she cradled her head in her good hand. The other was still hanging at her side, dangling unnaturally. “We should stay here, da? That is what they say you are supposed to do – stay put and wait for rescue.”

“The only people who are going to come looking for us have much less charitable intentions, believe me,” he replied. “Now, find a pack, and fill it with as much useful gear as you can carry. Rations, tools, whatever will keep us alive.”

“This is all your fault,” she snarled, flexing her claws as she shot 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.”

It wasn’t an idle threat coming from a Borealan. Boyd might be skilled at self-defense, but there wasn’t much that he could do against seven hundred pounds of pissed-off fat and muscle. It would be like trying to fight a grizzly bear.

“I would advise against that,” he said cautiously, keeping his tone level. “They won’t leave any witnesses alive. If we’re lucky, some of the bodies will be too damaged to identify, and they’ll assume that I was killed. I don’t think it’s likely that they’ll send out a team to look for us.”

She spat an insult in Russian that he didn’t understand, turning her attention to her broken arm.

“Damn it. At least the pain is keeping me awake. It seems that your crazy plan worked after all,” she added, turning to glance at the foam-filled cabin. “We need to search the Zemchug for other survivors. I will not go anywhere until everyone is accounted for, dead or alive.”

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

“Keep your mouth shut!” she snarled. Her sharp teeth were bared, and her round ears had pressed flat against her head. “Find the bodies – there will be five of them. If you leave before we are done, I will tell whoever comes looking where you went. Try to kill me, I dare you. Even injured, you cannot fight a Polar.”

He raised his hands defensively and took a step back. She was right – he didn’t fancy his chances trying to take her down armed with only a tiny knife. Better to choose diplomacy over conflict in this instance. It would take the Syndicate a little time to locate their crash site and dispatch a ship, so he could humor her request. She might yet be an asset to him, assuming she didn’t die from her injuries. Borealans were prized as shock troopers for a reason.

They set off in different directions, poring through the wreckage for any signs of life. The cockpit had crumpled when they had hit the ground, the pilot and the captain now little more than 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. It was human – weak enough to be almost inaudible. It crossed his mind to simply ignore it. There was no way that they could treat any severe injuries with the resources they had at hand, and the Polar might slow them down trying to care for or carry what was now surely dead weight.

Lorza quickly appeared at the door, however. Her furry ears were swiveling erratically, honing in on the source of the sound. She had far better hearing than he did.

“Do you hear that?” she gasped. “Someone is alive! I think it is Alexei!”

She called his name, and they heard him reply, Lorza following the voice over to a nearby bulkhead. She tapped against the warped metal with her knuckles but couldn’t find any compartments or breaks, deducing that he must be on the other side. Boyd watched as she squeezed into one of the cabins, 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. Things weren’t looking good for Alexei – he was delirious, as limp as a doll. Lorza dragged him into the corridor, then out into the snow, cradling his head in her giant hand as she lay him gently on the ground. She was clearly distressed, so Boyd kept his distance, surmising that she would likely hold him responsible for whatever happened to her crewmate.

She whispered to him in Russian, the man slowly coming to, reaching up to grip her sleeve with his fist. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, his behavior implying a severe concussion.

“He will freeze,” she pleaded, turning to look back at Boyd with tears in her eyes. “He needs a respirator and some warm clothes.”

Boyd held his tongue. The man almost certainly had a skull fracture or a bleed on the brain, and the prognosis wasn’t good. There was little to be gained by wasting time and resources on a man who wouldn’t survive the next few hours, but he was eager to avoid conflict with Lorza, so he set off into the wreck to search for the requested items. He returned a few minutes later with an emergency respirator and a winter coat, handing them off to Lorza, who draped the garment over her friend. It was a futile gesture – Boyd’s suit was reading twenty below zero. She held the mask to his face, encouraging him to breathe, the simple emergency respirator doing its best to filter oxygen from the environment.

“You know the ship better than I do,” Boyd began. “Go find as much food as you can, and anything you think might be useful. Sleeping bags, clothes, weapons, tools – anything you can fit in a backpack. I’ll take care of Alexei – I’m trained in first aid.”

Lorza nodded as she rose to her feet, panicked but clearly relieved to have something to occupy herself with. She headed back into the wreck, leaving the injured geologist in Boyd’s care. He kneeled in the snow beside the man, lifting the coat to give him a quick once-over. His body was covered in abrasions and some rather deep flesh wounds, but there was nothing that looked immediately life-threatening. The head injury was the more pressing issue. There was a crust of dried blood on his scalp that had made its way down one side of his face, his eyes were unfocused, and he was peering around in a daze.

“Alexei, can you hear me?” Boyd asked. “Try to stay awake. Can you speak?”

He coughed through the respirator, unresponsive, looking past Boyd as though he couldn’t even see him. That wasn’t a good sign. Boyd had his first-aid kit on hand, but there was no way to judge the extent of the damage without a medical scanner, and he couldn’t exactly perform brain surgery in the snow. It might be kinder to give him a lethal dose of painkillers to ease him on his way, but Lorza would certainly object. An adrenaline shot might get the Russian back on his feet. He’d still be a dead man walking, but at least they could move away from the wreck, and that was Boyd’s chief concern right now.

Boyd fished the aid kit out of his pocket, opening the little case and retrieving the injector. He searched the kit for one of the adrenaline capsules, then loaded it into the device, extending the hypodermic needle. After opening the man’s overalls to expose his chest, Boyd slammed the needle directly into his heart, injecting the payload into his system. Alexei’s eyes suddenly widened, and he sat up straight, breathing hard through his respirator as Boyd stowed the injector back in its case.