TICEES (60 page)

Near the top, she stopped and waited. She listened carefully for sounds and then proceeded. Cautiously, she came to the opening and squinted against the brilliant sunlight. Chelan’s eyes scanned the sky as she huddled near the tunnel entrance, poised to dive back into her protective hole should she need to.

Then came a tremendous boom, and Chelan cowered, recognizing the supersonic blast of Imperial fighters. Rapid-fire explosions sounded in the distance, and she scampered back down into the tunnel and prayed that she was deep enough to avoid detection. She remained unmoving for a long time until she was sure that they were gone, and then warily she approached the surface again.

Chelan popped her head above the ice and searched the sky, but it was clear. Rising slightly higher, she began to survey the horizons, but her gaze was suddenly diverted downward, and her heart stopped. There, not more than 100 meters away, was a downed and smoldering Imperial fighter.

Chelan was instantly out of the tunnel and on the run. Then she skidded to a halt. Her mind was telling her one thing, her heart another. Chelan gasped for air as she struggled with her dilemma. She could not be discovered, and yet someone might need help.

Chelan crouched to the ground, her eyes once again scanning the heavens for fighters. What if she knew the pilot? What if he or she knew her? She bolted to her feet, sprinting. It did not matter. Someone needed her.

Her heart pounded in her ears, and her lungs burned from exertion. But as she approached the wreck, her optimism began to fade. The fighter was in poor condition to say the least. Chelan swallowed hard and clutched at her aching chest, her disappointment nearly knocking the wind from her.

She moved cautiously up to the ship and then ducked behind the mass of torn fuselage, her eyes once again scanning the sky. Gathering all her courage, she straightened and hustled toward the mangled cockpit, scared to death to look inside. Holding her breath, she stopped and peered in. But it was empty, and Chelan was instantly consumed both by panic and by grief. Then she crumpled to the ground and tried to gather her scattering thoughts. She realized now why she had risked all to come to the fighter. She was lonely, and she wanted desperately to see another human being. Chelan took several deep breaths. Either the pilot had jettisoned or the other fighters had picked him or her up.

Chelan pushed herself to her feet, but her somber thoughts ended abruptly as she picked out a shrouded body thrown clear of the wreck. Chelan lurched into action and bolted to the fallen figure. She skidded to a halt and fell to her knees beside the form. It was obviously male, judging simply by the large size, but for Chelan it did not matter. He just had to be alive.

The man was facedown, and as Chelan caught her breath, she gently pulled back his hood. Then she worked slowly to remove the flight helmet and slipped it off. Chelan felt drained and exhilarated at the same time, yet somehow she knew that she would simply perish if the man was dead. She held her breath and placed her ear to his back. Hope suddenly surged through her heart. “Oh god, he’s alive!” she cried. Carefully, she felt along his neck and down his spine, looking for breaks, but all felt fine.

Then Chelan sat back on her heels in confusion. Why had they left him? The reconnaissance missions were always carried out with a number of fighters. All were heavily armed for protection, and recovering the injured man should have been easy. Chelan shuddered. Maybe they would come back for him, and she scanned the sky again. But then why wouldn’t they leave someone here to attend and protect him in the meantime?

But Chelan received her answer instantly as she was hit with a blast of ice crystals. She sheltered her eyes as she looked behind her toward her tunnel. There it was, the leading front of another monstrous ice storm, almost upon her.

Chelan jumped to her feet, her thoughts in disarray. She didn’t have time to check for further injuries. She had to move him fast, but she knew that he was too heavy for her to carry. She looked around frantically and then spotted a chunk of fragmented fuselage. Chelan dragged it over to him and strained to roll the man onto it. Then she ran to the cockpit and ripped the emergency kit from the sidewall, flinging it at the man’s body.

Chelan tugged on the metal and was relieved to find that it slid relatively easily over the frozen surface. She moved as rapidly as she could toward her refuge, the strong winds of the storm beginning to pound into her. Once at the edge of the tunnel, she encountered another problem—how to lower him safely.

But she realized she had no time to ponder the issue as the near hurricane-force winds hit her. Chelan stood to maneuver around the fuselage and was nearly blown away. With one huge tug she drew him into the tunnel, and instantly both of them were careening down the ice slope at a dangerous speed.

But their stop was unexpectedly gentle as the debris from the surface avalanche cushioned their fall and slowed their breakneck descent. Chelan scrambled to her feet and looked to the surface just as the light grew dim. Then she peered down at the black figure, his face protector still drawn over his features.

The light was diminishing rapidly, and she had to move fast. She knelt beside him and she tore at his shroud. Once she had stripped it away, she looked over him and her heart sank. He had a wound in his upper thigh, and it was deep and severe. The jagged flesh was agape, spilling his lifeblood as fast as his powerful heart could pump it.

Chelan bolted to her feet and ran down into the cavern to retrieve a bundle of her soft cloths. She returned and dropped to her knees by his side. Frantically, she pushed on his torn flesh, forcing it back together as best she could. Then she pressed several of the cloths over the wound as hard as she dared. As they became soaked, she added more, and finally the torrents of blood began to ebb.

Chelan panted for air as she looked over the rest of his body. Everywhere she looked there were extensive pools of blood from yet undetermined injuries. Chelan wanted to check for his pulse but she dared not remove the cloths from his wound. Suddenly it became dark, and Chelan cursed. The full force of the storm was overhead, and she had no idea how long it would take for the light to be restored.

The storm raged for what seemed to be an eon, but Chelan kept her vigil over the man as she prayed for his life. Finally, the light began to filter down, and the surface roar subsided. When Chelan could see again, she eased up on her pressure and looked down at the wound. She sighed with relief. The profuse bleeding had significantly slackened.

He needed more attention, but she needed him in the cavern where there was more light. She also needed to get his torn uniform off so that she could attend to the rest of his wounds, and the closer she was to the healing waters, the easier all her tasks would be. They were a lot farther down the incline than she had been when she’d crash-landed here herself a year ago. The fuselage had acted as a sleigh, sliding along the snow and ice avalanche, but she wanted him farther still.

Now came the daunting undertaking of actually accomplishing that feat. She yanked on the metal and pulled him as far as she could on what remained of the ice debris. Then she stopped and sat down, her lungs burning from exertion, her back aching. “Why do they have to make their warriors so damn big!” she cursed as she hunched forward in a heap. Then she looked up. She was now at the cavern entrance, and that was far enough for her.

Once again she applied pressure to his leg injury and then wound one of her leather ties to hold the cloth, thus freeing her hands. Chelan finally looked back to the man and held her breath in anticipation. She leaned forward and began removing his face protection. Chelan smiled as his features were revealed to her—the familiar blue-black hair, the strong jaw, the handsome face—another superb, genetically manipulated Iceanean warrior. Chelan did not recognize him, and that was half of the battle. Now she just hoped that he did not recognize her.

Chelan’s fingers coursed through his hair, feeling for lumps on his skull, but she found nothing, his life probably saved by his flight helmet. Her fingers pressed down along his neck, but still she detected nothing abnormal. Then she reached to his jacket and opened it, and she was temporarily stunned by the profusion of blood.

Chelan braced herself and frantically began stripping him of his garment, tugging and pulling at the jacket until she finally rid him of it. Carefully, she went over his flesh with her fingers, checking each wound for severity and shrapnel. Most of the lacerations appeared to be those caused by metal fragments, and most were cleanly sliced. Although some were deep, they were not the priority at the moment. Right now his torn thigh was his most grievous wound, at least that she could see.

Chelan shuffled down and removed his knives from his boots. Then she took off his boots and his pants, cutting the garment away from his body at his partially severed leg. Chelan sat back, taking several deep and calming breaths. Tentatively, she dared to remove the clothes from his thigh and waited. But the bleeding had slowed to a mere ooze, and Chelan nearly cried with relief.

The muscle was badly torn, the wound to the bone and across the entire width of his thigh. Chelan just hoped that most, if not all, of his major ligaments were intact, but she had no idea how to check. She wished she knew more about anatomy, but then even if she were a doctor, she wondered how much her Earth knowledge could be applied to the Iceanean people.

She secured the cloth back in place and then continued, feeling down each leg as she looked for breaks, but nothing was displaced. Flashes of the fighter’s condition, especially the cockpit, sliced through her mind, and she wondered how he had fared as well as he had. Though there were still internal injuries to consider, Chelan passed them over. As with her, if they were there, there was nothing she could do about them.

She broke open the emergency kit and surveyed her utensils. She grabbed a pen-like object knowing that it was a medical laser, and also knowing that it would be her best ally. But just how good a surgeon she would be was quite another question. Next she found a tube of their biobonding agent, and that would definitely be put to good use.

Other utensils included easily identifiable objects such as forceps and scalpels, even a retractor, but many of the instruments Chelan could not identify and therefore had little use for. The only other thing she closely inspected was a fairly large bottle full of a clear liquid. When Chelan opened the container, she smelled the familiar scent of the antiseptic that Stose had used on her. It would certainly come in handy, and it was precious.

Chelan set to work. She gathered some furs, water, and more of her soft cloths. Then she bundled up some of her larger blankets and moved them by the warrior. Finding the closest dripstone depression, she poured out a small amount of the antiseptic and then placed all her utensils in it. She shed her shroud and gloves. Then she washed her hands as best she could before dipping her fingers in the fluid.

When she was all prepared, Chelan paused to review just exactly what she planned to do. Judging by the amount of blood loss, a major vein was severed somewhere, and she knew what to look for, but quite likely it had collapsed. The bleeding could have come from an artery, but if it had been the femoral artery, he would have bled out by now. Then she frowned. Or would he? She knew they had supreme control over themselves and could lower their heart rates and their blood pressure and slow their metabolism. Maybe it was an artery, and he was controlling his body systems. Could he do that while unconscious? God, she knew so much, yet right now, she knew so little. But regardless of the situation, she couldn’t get a handle on anything until she opened his wound and had a good look.

After the bleeding was addressed, then would come the muscle repair along with cleaning and the removal of any foreign matter. From there she would have to take things as they presented themselves. She had to work quickly, knowing that doing something was better than nothing and realizing that whatever she was going to do had to be completed by nightfall.

Chelan took a deep and shaky breath. She removed the makeshift dressing from the large laceration and spread the wound wide, wincing at its magnitude. Immediately, the suspect bleeder presented itself, an artery for sure, its life-threatening flow of blood renewed. Chelan quickly clamped each end of the thick white vessel and then cleared out the excess blood. Pulling the two ends together, she began the meticulous task of binding them with the laser, spot-fusing them first, and then sealing everything with the biobonding gel.

When she had finished, she released the clamps and checked for leaks. The ends had sealed beautifully, and Chelan sat back in pleased silence. Then she reached for his foot, concerned over the lack of circulation from the severed artery, but his flesh, though cool, felt fine. “Wow…” she exclaimed. “Amazing.”

She poured a tiny amount of the antiseptic over the wound and watched for bleeding. There was some oozing but nothing she could see that she could fix. The wound was surprisingly clean considering the state it was in, and Chelan could find nothing that did not belong.

Then she set about sorting through the dense muscle tissues. For the most part, Chelan could see what went where easily. His unconscious state made the drawing of the muscles together manageable, for she knew that he was far too powerful for her to handle otherwise. Bit by bit, she sorted through the layers of tissue, cauterizing bleeders with the fine laser and binding the muscle fibers with the surgical glue.

Chelan worked as quickly as she dared and ever so carefully. But she realized that despite all her efforts, the young warrior would probably never regain the full use of his leg. That was if she saved the leg at all. Chelan knew nothing about nerves or ligaments, except that ligaments could retract far into the leg where she could not retrieve them. And nerves totally eluded her: she didn’t even know what to look in for let alone how to repair them.

The hours ticked on, and she worked diligently, taking time out only to stretch cramped fingers and to rub weary eyes with her palms. Periodically, she leaned over and listened to the comfort of his heartbeat before continuing on. Now it was time for his skin. She pulled all the jagged fragments together and smoothed out the torn edges with the scalpel. Then, with delicacy, she began binding the edges together with the glue, making sure the wound was completely sealed. When she was finished, she was utterly exhausted.