Expendable - James Alan Gardner [120]
With a cry, Jelca fled toward the elevator. I held another rock ready in case he turned around, but he didn’t. He ran straight to the hidden entrance; a moment later, the door whisked open, then closed. Still wary, I kept my grip on the stone in my hand as I approached Oar.
“Festina,” she whispered, “I do not feel good.”
She fell into my arms.
Damage Assessment
I dragged her to cover in case Jelca was being tricky; he might be waiting to leap out of the elevator and shoot us both. The safest place I could find was just inside the edge of the woods: far enough to be out of stunner range, but with a clear view of the elevator entrance if Jelca tried to sneak out.
Once we were safe, I examined Oar. She was bad. Fluid dribbled out of her ears, thin fluid with a smell like vinegar. Her breathing crackled each time she inhaled. After her collapse, she had wet herself; I mopped up as best I could with a handful of soft-rotted pine needles.
There were no wounds on the outside of her body—no chance for me to feel useful by applying bandages. I pulled the first aid kit from my belt pouch and looked for anything else that might be useful. Nothing. Antibiotics and disinfectants intended for a human metabolism, not hers.
And the scalpel, of course.
I wished I had brought my Bumbler—at least I could have used it to scan her on various wavelengths. As it was, her body was as clear as ever, internal damage invisible.
Oh well, I thought, this time I won’t be tempted to operate.
Camping Out
Unable to help Oar, I turned to the problem of Jelca. With due caution, I approached the outcrop hiding the elevator entrance…and he was gone, back down to the city.
When I pressed my palm against the plate that opened the door, nothing happened. I tried it again. And again.
No luck.
Jelca must have shorted out the controls. He didn’t want me chasing after him. More importantly, he didn’t want Ullis or a rescue party coming up to find me and the truth.
I wasted several minutes smashing the door with rocks, then trying to pry it open with a stick. Even before I started, I knew the effort would prove futile. The door was thick metal, its frame embedded deep into the mountain itself. Nothing I could do would budge it.
Back in the woods, Oar was still unconscious, still breathing. The shadows under the trees had thickened; only the peaks of nearby mountains caught any sunlight. I would need a fire soon to drive off the chill…and perhaps firelight would be good for Oar too. The IR from the flames might be like giving her intravenous nutrients.
In case Jelca tried to bushwhack us during the night, I built the fire in front of the elevator entrance. If he tried to come out, we’d see him immediately. I had also leaned a pile of stones up against the door. If it started to move, the pile would topple down with enough noise to raise the alarm.
Once I had propped Oar in front of the fire, I warmed myself a bit, then set out for the lark-plane, only half a klick away. If it was still in one piece, I could fly Oar home—back to her own village, where I could lay her out in the Tower of Ancestors and let her absorb a full spectrum of energy. That was the only way I could think to help her; if she drank in enough strength, her body might repair itself. Even better, Oar’s mother was there in the tower…dormant yes, but she might stir herself if she saw Oar was seriously injured. For all I knew, Oar’s mother might tell me about some miraculous med-tech machine that could fix Oar in seconds.
When I got to the lark, I saw it was not going anywhere. Athelrod’s crew had ripped out circuit boards, left wires dangling, even cut away part of one wing. The plane looked like the victim of vandals; and perhaps it was. I was beginning to think that the High Council’s greatest crime was not committed against Explorers, but against the people of Melaquin. We were cultural pollutants, contaminating an otherwise pristine environment. Think of Tobit and his homebrew