Citadel: First Colony (5 page)

The explosion of the oxygen tanks had been completely contained within the crew chamber of the shuttle, high atop the Citadel module. The module itself had managed to right itself for landing, settling into the towering position that would have been its default in a normal landing. Considering the half-crash/half-landing, the module was in relatively good shape. Spires of gleaming metal, a communications array, jutted upward into the sky in a way that Somar thought was almost majestic. Like the points of a crown.

The crewmembers were organizing and tending to the injured, getting people to safety and dressing wounds with the few med kits that had been hastily retrieved from the module before the mass exodus of the crew. Somar spotted three Blue Collars who had helped one of their crewmates into the shade of the trees.

“Crewmen,” he said, gesturing for them. “We need to form a rescue party. Two of the crew were thrown clear by the explosion. I believe they landed in that ... ”

“We’re not taking orders from
you
, scrub,” one of the males said belligerently.

Somar blinked. He had heard the term “scrub” before. It was a derogatory term, short for “scrub brush.” It was a slang term that referenced the plant-based nature of Somar’s people. “Forgive me, but we must ... ”

“You heard me. We don’t take orders from a walking salad. So why don’t you just go take root somewhere nice and let the real humans do their work, ok?”

Somar was unsure how to proceed. It was essential to act quickly. The crewmembers were likely injured and could die if not found soon. But he was unaccustomed to his orders being ignored and wasn’t sure where this sudden hostility was coming from.

“I am a Captain of the Esool Fleet and an acting Captain for the Earth Colony Fleet. I am the only ranking officer present. Please assist me in finding these injured crewmen.”

“I said we’re not taking orders from you!” The crewman stepped forward menacingly, squaring off with Somar. His body language was practically screaming hostility. “Our commander is First Commander Marcos, and we’ll only take orders from him.”

Somar was unsure how to proceed. If he engaged this crewman in hand-to-hand combat, he would surely prevail, but it would waste precious time and conceivably damage his position with the crew. Luckily, he was spared from the decision by a male voice from behind.

“Marcos is dead.”

Everyone turned to look at the newcomer. Somar recognized him as Mitch Garrison, one of the Chief Engineers. He was helping the female pilot, Reilly, to hobble toward the group.

“Like hell,” one of the Blue Collars said.

“It’s true,” Reilly reported. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her uniform, smearing dirt across her tear-moist cheek in the process. “He had to hit the release clamps manually. He was blown out during decompression.”

There was a moment of silence as the group absorbed this information. “So ... who’s in charge?”

Mitch nodded towards Somar. “Like the man said, he’s the ranking officer. And you, gentlemen, will follow the chain of command. Is that going to be a problem, Jack?” he said, turning to address the belligerent crewman.

The other crewmen looked at each other, plainly irritated by this turn of events. Jack openly stared at Mitch, then looked to his friends and nodded. When they turned back to Somar, they saluted, although a bit resentfully. “Your orders ...
Captain
,” Jack, practically spat.

Somar simply repeated, “We need to form a search party. I want three people to scout that brush. There are at least two crewmembers in there, possibly injured. Bring them back to this area.”

The crew nodded and three men, including Jack, left to enter the brush. A moment later, another Blue Collar crewmember hurried after them, a young human that Somar had not seen before.

Somar looked around and indicated several more members of the crew, most of which had gathered at the first sign of a conflict. “We must establish a camp. You,” he indicated several men and women. “See to food and shelter. The rest of you will tend the wounded. Bring them all to this location and make sure they are shaded and provided with water and treatment.”

The crew now split up into their various duties.

Somar turned to Mitch and Reilly. “Thank you for diffusing the situation,” he said.

Mitch nodded. “You’re welcome. I saw how you got everyone out of that chamber. You may have saved most of their lives, even if they don’t want to admit it. You deserve respect,” he said.

Somar nodded perfunctorily. He then helped Mitch to lower the injured Reilly into a shaded spot. He spared a glance at the Citadel module, standing high and gleaming under an alien sun. The shuttle, their only means of transport out of the atmosphere, was smoldering at the top of the tower. It might or might not be able to function again. But since they had no way, at present, to know if the orbital module had managed to survive, it could be a moot point anyway. Space might just be permanently out of reach.

Somar turned back to the injured and dazed crew. Space, at this point, was the least of their worries.

––––––––

J
ack
and the others stomped off into the woods.
The scrub had given them an order, and the Chief had backed it. Mitch Garrison was a good guy, and Jack would follow his lead. If he said do what the sprout ordered, then that was what Jack would do. For now.

He and two of his crew had just entered the brush when Alan Angelou raced up to join them without a word.
More the better
, Jack thought.

Alan was an odd kind of guy—Jack wasn’t too sure how he felt about him. He was a good worker and was always on time. When he had first joined Captain Alonzo’s crew, he was as green as Esool blood, but he was smart, and he worked hard to get up to speed. In fact, he seemed to know more than he let on. He picked up everything so fast that Jack was sure he had at least some kind of background in it.

It was funny because even though Alan was a Blue Collar, he sometimes acted like a White. He read things. Whenever he wasn’t on duty, you could almost always find him in the galley or in his bunk, reading something from a handheld. When they were at faster-than-light, he would read from one of the old paper books, the rare ones that they came across sometimes during trades. Jack had seen the boy trade a perfectly good wrench for a stack of worthless, rotting books once. He had torn into him for that one, but later Alan showed him his collection of tools, all good quality and all cared for regularly. The boy could spare one wrench, which had suddenly not looked up to snuff in the comparison.

Jack didn’t trust Alan entirely, but that was true for most people. Trust had to be earned, Jack felt. But the kid did his work and kept his mouth shut—and that
wasn’t
true for most people. The books were a big waste of time, Jack could have told him, but he couldn’t see much harm in them. If the boy started to get too big for his britches, thinking he was a White Collar, Jack and his crew could always teach him a lesson. A bunk raid in the middle of the night was usually enough to make most guys give up on trying to be above everyone else.

They had been in the brush for a while now, plowing through as branches and brambles snagged on their clothes and tripped them up. Jack was starting to feel that every step, every slap of a branch, every time his clothes snagged, was a slap in the face from the alien scrub.

Damn the scrub! Why wasn’t he the one sweating and dragging through this stuff? Jack cursed as more branches slashed at him and more brambles grabbed him.

They were going blind, using only the general direction the alien had pointed in as their guide. Probably a big mistake. What would the scrub care if four real men died out here in the brush? He was
in charge
. As long as he had a few pet humans to boss around, why should he care if he lost a handful?

As they moved, they suddenly heard someone calling from within the brush. It was faint, muffled by the growth of the forest. “Hey! Hey, we’re here! Over here!”

“You hear that?” one of the guys asked.

“That way,” Jack nodded, honing in on the voice. Alan stepped in beside him as they moved further in. The kid was breaking through the bramble and limbs through sheer will.

“Here!” they heard the male voice call again, closer. “Here in the brush!” They finally broke through to a small clearing where a White Collar was tending to an injured woman on the ground. Jack looked closer and saw that it was Lissa Martin. She was a Blue Collar who worked in ship’s services, mostly running errands between modules, checking gauges, that sort of thing. She and Jack had given it a go a few times, taking advantage of long shifts by keeping each other “company.”

She looked to be in bad shape. They’d have to get her back to the landing module quickly.

There was movement to his side. Jack glanced over to see Alan. He seemed to be looking at the White Collar. No, not just looking—
staring
. It seemed to Jack that Alan recognized the man, but he couldn’t be sure. Alan glanced quickly at Jack and then his expression changed. He was, once again, the same old stoic Alan, and before Jack could ask him anything, the young man pushed into the clearing, moving to help the injured pair.

W
hen
Thomas opened his eyes
, the first official act of his brain was noticing the pain. A lot of it, in fact. His shoulder ached to the point where he wondered if maybe his arm had been ripped from the socket. A cautious but quick check, lifting his hands painfully into the air, showed him that everything was still attached and working. It hurt like hell, but it didn’t seem to be dislocated. Just wrenched.

It was the burns that hurt the worst.

The jumpsuit had protected him from the flames for the most part, but the burning liquid had clung to his clothing and had burned his arms and hands in places. He wasn’t sure, but it was likely these were second- and third-degree burns. Pretty dangerous injuries to have at any time—but especially while stranded on an alien planet with God knows what kinds of bacteria and infections floating about. Plus they hurt. A lot.

He resolved not to worry about infections. Supposedly, the
Uninoc
, “universal inoculation,” that he’d been given prior to the trip had some sort of adaptive antibody that could fight off any infection. He might still get sick, but his recovery would be faster, and there was “less chance of death.” Comforting. But at least he could put that worry out of his mind and concentrate on more important things.

The woman he’d rescued seemed to be burn-free, but she was obviously injured in other ways. She groaned as he gingerly turned her over. He winced at the pain it caused his own hands. His fingers seemed to be mostly free of burns, so he tried to limit any contact to these.

She was still breathing, which was a relief. But he was concerned about the blood caked on the side of her face and gathered in the corners of her mouth. “Hey,” he said, though his voice sounded hoarse and his throat hurt. Smoke inhalation. He was in bad shape, too.

The woman coughed and winced. “Hurts,” she said, indicating her ribs.

Thomas felt relieved to hear her speak. He had half-worried she wouldn’t regain consciousness. He reached out with burning and aching hands and gently pressed her side. She nearly screamed from the pain.

Her ribs were broken.

“Listen, I’m going to open your jumpsuit and take a look at your side, ok? Hope you’re not modest.” He tried to smile.

She simply nodded, her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming from the corners, and her face contorted with pain. Thomas, using the tips of his unburned fingers, gently unzipped the jumpsuit, pushed it open and lifted her T-shirt. Her entire right side was one big bruise.

He closed up her suit and helped her to be comfortable. What was he going to do? He had no formal medical training, and most of what he knew came from movies and television. He had taken a safety course once, years ago, but he was sure that CPR would do more harm than good at this point. It was the only part he could remember.

Even if he had been a trained physician, his burned hands made him effectively useless. In fact, it occurred to him that he was in as much danger as she was. They both needed serious medical attention, and that meant getting back to wherever the module had crashed. Someone among the survivors would have medical training. It was the girl’s only hope.

He couldn’t do this alone. “Just rest. I’m going to see if I can find anyone to help.”

She gripped his arm. “No, please,” she said, barely whispering. “Please don’t leave me.” She sobbed and winced from the pain in her side. She suddenly coughed, and a light spray of blood splattered forth.

This was bad.

It seemed likely she had a punctured lung, and Thomas wasn’t sure what the hell to do about it. Should he move her? Or should he leave her and try to find help? Neither seemed like a great idea. It might be better to stay close, tend to her, and hope that someone came to rescue them soon.

He couldn’t see out of the undergrowth, which was thick around them. He had no idea in which direction they’d been thrown after the blast. The module could be anywhere, and if he moved out in search of it, he might become lost and entangled in this alien brush. No good for either of them.

Still, how could he sit here and do nothing? He stood and listened, hoping to hear sounds from the crash site. Either the brush and forest were too thick, insulating him from sound, or they’d been thrown further than he’d thought. Maybe both.

“Hey,” he said to the girl, kneeling beside her once more, “what’s your name?” He instinctively felt he should keep her awake and alert. Or was that just for head injuries? He cursed himself for having no medical knowledge whatsoever.

She coughed a bit. “Melissa. Melissa Martin. Lissa for short.” She actually managed a smile.

“Lissa,” he smiled back. “I had a cousin named Melissa, back on earth. Mean cook,” he said.

Lissa coughed and winced. “I ... can’t cook,” she said, and Thomas thought she smiled again. She was tough. Scared, but tough.