Anlyn’s face looked awful. Blotchy and bruised. The sight should have exacerbated Molly’s dizziness, but she was in charge.
Responsible. Adrenaline surged through her body, working miracles. She unbuckled Walter first.
“Give us room,” she told him, which he did eagerly.
Next, she tried to push Edison back, but his bulk was a steel wall draped in fur. “Edison, I need you to get back.”
Edison shook his head, but did as she asked. He cradled Anlyn’s helmet in both paws, rubbing it.
Molly knelt down in front of the young Drenard. The girl’s skin, normally a translucent light shade of blue, had turned a splotchy purple. Individual capillaries and veins streaked across her bald head in a tangled web. Two rivulets of blood snaked out of the hearing holes behind her jaw and tracked forward to the center of her face, pulled there by the force of acceleration.
Her chin rested on her chest as if she were merely sleeping, but the back of her head was ashen. She was clearly suffering from SLAS. Molly tried to remember how many Gs they’d been pushing before the jump and whether any of Cole’s alterations to her suit had required retooling the anti-grav pockets.
She reached into the collar of Anlyn’s flightsuit and encircled the Drenard’s thin neck with both hands, the universal method used to locate an alien’s pulse. It occurred to her as she waited for a sign of life just how unprepared she was for commanding her own ship and its crew. The Navy taught her how to shoot down aliens from a distance but not how to manage living with nonhumans while caring for their well-being.
Looking over her shoulder, she asked Edison, “Do you know where her heart is?”
The pup shook his head. Molly could see the skin around his nose where the fur was thin. Normally it was pink and healthy—now it was as pale as the back of Anlyn’s head.
“Take her to your bunk and get her flightsuit off,” she told him. Molly reached to unplug the suit from the anti-gravity and life-support module but noticed someone had already done so. She ran back for the first aid kit above the galley sink.
As she unstrapped the kit, she watched Edison scoop up his small friend with a paradoxical mix of strength and gentleness, then surge past her with long, even strides, back toward his crew quarters.
Walter watched the ordeal from across the cargo bay, then slid across the wake of all the frenzied activity. He settled into his chair, his elbow stretching out into the seat beside him. Anlyn’s seat. But he could remember back when this whole side of the crew lounge had been his.
Even though he said the word silently, to himself, he did so in English.
Within his Palan brain, it came out as a hiss.
By the time Molly made it back to Anlyn with the first aid kit, Edison already had her flightsuit off. He stood there, the empty suit draped over one massive forearm as he looked to Molly for more instructions. She could tell he needed to be told what to do next. Something. Anything. The color seemed to be draining from his very fur.
Molly knew the two aliens had gotten close during their brief time together, especially over the week they spent alone repairing Parsona. She also recognized Anlyn had taken to clinging to Edison for security. But she had no idea they might be in love with one another.
She did now. The same emotion bursting within her own heart for Cole seemed to visibly pour out of Edison. She recognized it in his worry, in his fear. As Molly knelt to attend to Anlyn, she also realized she had two patients in the room.
“Go get some clean rags and water,” she told him. “I want you to clean up her face and keep her head cool.”
That was the prescription for Edison’s heart. Now she needed to locate Anlyn’s.
There had been no pulse in her neck, and unless she was like the Bel Tra—with their arteries hidden within their very spines—that wasn’t an encouraging sign.
At least the girl was on her back, the blood able to drain down toward the gravity plates in the hull’s decking. Now Molly just needed to get those fluids circulating again. Every known sentient being relied on the potent chemical energy locked up in ATP and fueled by oxygen. Without a constant supply, the girl would die.
Molly unzipped a side compartment on the aid kit and pulled out two plastic tubes, then slid them into the small breathing holes above Anlyn’s mouth. There was no way to know how far to do this, so she pushed until there was some resistance before backing the tubes out a little. With the press of a button, a small compression fan on the side of the aid box whirred to life.
Reaching into another pouch, Molly pulled out the small medical reader and searched “Drenard,” even though she was almost certain she wouldn’t find anything. The race wasn’t in any of the Navy’s aid manuals, either from absence of knowledge or lack of caring. Why she thought there’d be anything in her parents’ old civilian gear was beyond—
Her parents.
Molly turned and bolted out the door, nearly breaking her nose as she crashed into Edison. “I’ll be right back,” she shouted over her shoulder. She dashed through the cargo bay, leaving Edison behind, the poor pup not knowing what to do.
Tears streaming down his fur.
Molly bolted into the cockpit, not bothering to crawl into her seat. She leaned across the flight controls and switched the nav screen over to Parsona’s old charts.
“Everything okay?” Cole asked.
Molly ignored him. A chart of astral information went off the screen, replaced with line after line of text—her mother wanting to know what was going on.
NO TIME. I NEED TO KNOW WHERE THE DRENARD HEART IS_
THE DRENARD HEART?_
LITERALLY. MEDICALLY. ANLYN DOESN’T HAVE A PULSE. DO YOU KNOW WHERE HER HEART IS?_
OH, DEAR. I USED TO. IN THE UPPER THORAX, ANTERIOR, I BELIEVE. MOLLIE, WHAT’S GOING ON? THE COMPUTER WAS WORKING ON A CALCULATION THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE_
Molly pushed off Cole’s chair, ignoring another question from him and several more from her mom. She darted back across the cargo bay, past Walter playing his video game, back to Edison’s room.
“A little space, buddy.” Molly pushed Edison gently on the shoulder, and the pup moved aside. It was stuffy with the three of them in the small cabin, but Molly didn’t have the heart to ask him to leave, and the circulation pump should be pushing plenty of oxygen into Anlyn’s lungs.
The girl had suffered a severe case of SLAS—her skin two-toned as all of her blood pooled up in the front half of her body. Molly wouldn’t be able tell if anything was ruptured or what kind of hope they had for saving the girl until she could help the heart distribute the fluids evenly. Rolling Anlyn onto her stomach was going to make things worse, but Molly had to get to her circulation organ, and according to her mom, it was high up and in her back.
Anlyn felt incredibly frail as Molly rolled her over. “Keep those tubes from kinking,” she told Edison. He reached out, eager to assist, and managed the air supply. Molly grabbed the pillow Anlyn’s head had been on and placed it under the girl’s chest. It went right below what must be her race’s taboo area, encircled as it was with a white undergarment.
Edison’s fur waved with nervous energy. Molly considered her other patient before she began. “I need you to keep her head to one side, okay? Make sure she’s getting air.”
He nodded vigorously and moved to cradle Anlyn’s head. Molly straddled the girl’s back as if she were about to give the Drenard a massage. She placed her left palm high on the girl’s thorax and wrapped her right hand around it. Locking her elbows, Molly leaned forward to apply some force straight down. She used her first tentative thrust to gauge the effort that was going to be required; she didn’t want to accidentally hurt her friend while attempting to save her. Resistance was surprisingly stiff, Anlyn’s bones unusually rigid to be so light.