Wild Roses

Cold Comfort – Chapter Two

Early December AC 191

Zodiac Wing – Space Deployment near L5

The hours after the immediate explosion of the reactor both crawled and flew for Treize.

The tepid shower, taken in the shared locker rooms just off the hanger deck with harsh chemical soap and a rough brush, had left his skin itchy and his hair lank, and the clean flight suit he'd been handed when he'd towelled off had been drawn from general stores, and lacked all the luxury and warmth of his personalised uniforms.

Still, he'd barely registered the lack of comfort, in favour of taking the ladder to the command centre of the ship three rungs at a time as soon as he was dressed so he could take command of the recovery operation from an exhausted looking Jean-Remy Chennault.

The captain had already ordered the hanger deck be vented to space, damning the cost of the lost suits and equipment if they couldn't be recovered, and tallied together Zechs's rough head count from the corridor to show they were missing 8 pilots and five support crew.

Treize looked at the figures, closed his eye for a moment in silent prayer, then looked back at the Cajun Officer. "It could have been worse," he said quietly.

"It could, a lot," Remy agreed softly. "Marquise is earning his stripes today, that's for sure."

Treize recalled what Remy had told him on the hanger deck, noting it alongside the fact that Zechs was still on his feet in the lower decks, moving from pilot to pilot in his squadron to talk to them personally, and nodded his agreement.

"He is. Pass the word for a Command Briefing in 60 minutes," he told Remy, "then go to bed and get some sleep. I'll pass you the notes from the briefing." He paused for a moment, letting Chennault scowl his puzzlement at the oddness of the orders he'd just been given – a command briefing in a crisis that he wasn't attending? - then continued, "I don't want to see you for at least 4 hours. One of us needs to be sure of a clear head."

The older officer's scowl set, and he stepped into Treize's side, casting him an assessing gaze. "Problem, sir?" he asked, his voice suddenly dropping to not much above a whisper.

Treize flicked a hand at his dress, answering and dismissing at the same time. "I was on the hangar deck," he explained carefully, aware of the ears of the bridge crew, "and I'm not one for taking chances. If it's needed, it'll be yours to relieve me and take over. There's too much to be done to chance an uncertain command."

Chennault stood in silence, his eyes flicking back and forth across Treize's face, then nodded.

"Yes, sir, he said levelly, as though he hadn't just been told he might have the job of declaring his dying commander unfit to serve in a few hours, with all that would go with such an action.

He snapped a brisk salute and turned on his heel to hurry through the hatch.

Treize was the last to arrive in the ward room an hour later, having paused on his way to change the borrowed flight suit for his own combat kit, sturdy lace up jump-boots, stiff fatigue pants and heavy blue pullover with its padded shoulders and elbows. He'd done it both for the sake of morale – it was better for him to be recognised, together, acting normally, than looking like a patient – and comfort, assuming that him shivering all the way through the briefing in the thin cotton suit would not be conducive to clear decision making.

The other officers called to the briefing were in variations on the three modes of dress, but Treize didn't particularly bother to notice who was wearing which beyond noting Zechs's astonishingly red match for his own clothes, and remembering that the younger man had been missing his red jacket since his return to the ship.

Treize took the seat that had been left for him, next to Zechs and Doctor Sinclair and facing the ship's senior Flight Engineer, then called the meeting to order.

Various squadron leads and support personnel gave their reports first, leaving only the Flight Engineer and the Doctor to give theirs. Of them, the Engineer went first, apologetically detailing the damage that the explosion had done to the ship directly and indirectly, and the limits that subsequent dumps of air and heat from the hangar deck and water from pipes passing near it had imposed to their supplies.

"…. Approximately 20% of our water supply was suspected contaminated," he finished.

"In real terms, please?" Treize asked the man calmly.

"We're projected another 10 days out here," the engineer replied, "but I'm recommending we now look to no more than half that without resupply. I'm also recommending lowering ships ambient temperature by at least 10 degrees and turning off all non-essential systems to reduce the strain on the remaining conversion units – we're designed to run with the loss of one, but not two, and the aft unit is coming to the end of its service life. I'm concerned that over-tolerance strain will cause it to fail, which would drop us straight into real trouble."

Treize raised an eyebrow as he digested that, noting Sinclair shifting unhappily. As well he might – the ship's standard ambient temperature was a cool but comfortable 13° C, allowing for the Specials heavy uniform whilst being warm enough to shower and sleep comfortably. Dropping it to 3°C or lower would leave a noticeable chill in the air – not good for a Doctor fighting with large numbers of sick and injured personnel.

He opened his mouth to give his consent regardless – it was the lesser of two evils in this case – and stopped when Zechs leaned forward.

"Excuse me, Captain," he asked the Engineer, his voice level but his face intent, "but why are we operating without a backup unit?"

The Engineer blinked, clearly not expecting either the question or the questioner. "…I'm sorry?" he asked.

"We run on four units; we can run on three. We can't run on two at all. Why aren't we carrying a spare, particularly if one unit is close to service-life?"

The Engineer hesitated, flicking a glance at Treize, who inclined his head; it was a good question and, now that it had been asked, he was of a mind to hear the answer.

"We do," the Engineer said slowly. "Or we did. We installed the spare early in the flight, to replace unit 3, which had burned out." He sat back as he spoke, clearly expecting the matter to be closed.

Zechs nodded carefully. "So we left Earth-Orbit with two dubious units, but only one spare? Is that… accepted practice?"

The Engineer bridled visibly. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?" he snapped, with an emphasis on the blonde's rank. "What are you implying? Yes, a single backup is absolutely according to regulations."

"I'm implying nothing, Captain," Zechs returned, unfazed. "Merely trying to establish something which strikes me as in need of review. Are those regulations unchanged for combat-likely missions?"

The Engineer glared. "What difference does that make?" he snapped, clearly not mollified.

Zechs shrugged. "Only that it increases the likelihood of a damaged suit or a damaged hanger bay, and since two of the four units are immediately surrounding the bay…." He shrugged again. "Has the suggestion of a second backup ever been made?"

The Engineer went red in the face; he knew well enough now what Zechs was getting at. Treize's unit was all about innovation. Competent wasn't enough and hiding behind regulations would impress no-one. Zechs had as good as finished the Captain in the unit and he knew it – the suggestion for a future second backup should have come from him, and now, if not before the ship left Orbit.

"Thank you, Zechs," Treize said gently. "We'll review procedure at a later date." He looked at the Engineer. "Lower the temperature," he ordered.

His words caused Dr Sinclair to stir again, and Treize turned to look at him. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I'm not happy with dropping the temperature," he said evenly. "I've got several very sick and injured individuals in sick bay, two of whom are going to need stabilising surgery in the next few hours. I can't operate if I can't feel my fingers, gentlemen," he quipped, drawing a strained chuckle. "Added to that, a good number of the crew either already are or are going to be ailing in the next few hours, and I have to object on medical grounds."

Treize considered. "How long do you need for the surgeries?" he asked.

"Five or six hours, give or take," Sinclair replied.

The redhead nodded. "We'll hold temperature until you say you're done, but I can't let a little discomfort override engineering reality. Unless you tell me shivering a little will be medically dangerous, we'll suffer."

He waited for the doctor's response, which was a resigned head shake.

"Which brings us to Medical in any case," Treize continued. "Can you give me an update?"

Sinclair shrugged. "We had a complete beach of a Leo thrust unit," he said, voice level.

Treize waited whilst that information was assimilated around the table. He and Zechs had been in the hanger when the reactor blew but the other officers had not and he watched as their faces showed their realisation of what the doctor was driving at. The exploding reactor had run off a short half-life Iodine-isotope core, and the Academy curriculum included just a little too much high-energy physics for them not to know what that might mean.

"Do you know what level of exposure we're looking at?" Leander Aristedes asked from his seat a quarter of the way around the table, and Treize was abruptly reminded that his mandatory degree had been in Physics.

"No," the doctor answered flatly. "The dosimeters in the hanger are completely overloaded. We had three people vomiting inside twenty minutes – that says the levels were higher than we'd like."

There was a general rustle around the table as that was digested. Every officer there had studied radiation sickness in their first term at the Academy - when you flew suits powered by reactors all day every day, exposure was a when not an if - but Treize suspected most were as rusty as he was.

"Then shouldn't you be with them?" Leander asked. "You're the senior medic…."

The doctor cut him off by shaking his head slowly. "Lieutenant, if they're vomiting that soon, they're dead already. There's nothing I can do for them barring a Dignitas shot, and I have nurses that can do that just fine."

There was a general shiver around the table and Treize's eyes locked with Zechs's, seeing the sudden fear in the blonde's eyes. He tried to project reassurance, confidence, and was so focussed that he missed the doctor bending down and reappearing with a needle in his hand until the man jabbed it into his carotid artery.

He flinched immediately – and not only from the sharp sting. Sinclair had just been talking about administering the lethal drug cocktail the Specials used for euthanizing those too badly injured to live in combat situations.

"Anti-Rad cocktail, Major. You ran away from me before I could give it to you earlier," the doctor chuckled, having registered the flinch and snorted at it. "Don't panic," he added drolly. "I'll tell you before I kill you."

Treize let his expression convey what he thought of that little comment, glaring icily even as the doctor hit him with another shot. "If it comes to that," he replied softly, really not wanting this conversation overheard, and trusting in the round of chuckles the byplay had triggered to give him cover, "no, you won't."

Sinclair flicked him an arch look, jabbing him a third time. "What, tell you?" he asked.

Treize shook his head, flicked a glance at Zechs, then pulled his ID tags free of his collar, neatly drawing the doctors attention to the little silver cross carried on the same chain. "No, kill me," he clarified. He dropped his voice a little further. "I have a standing exemption on file," he explained.

"Ah," Sinclair said. "So noted. Roman Catholic?" he asked gently.

"Russian Orthodox," Treize corrected, as silence fell again. "Will I be regretting that?" he asked lightly, as though he wasn't talking about his own possibly impending horrible death.

The doctor gave his snort of amusement again. "Well, you haven't thrown up on my shoes yet, so I'm not too worried." He shrugged, then turned back to the table generally. "Share this information with your pilots and crew, please," he instructed. "I want to know about any incidence of nausea or vomiting as soon as it happens. Without dosimeter readings, the best rule of thumb way to measure rad exposure is waiting to see when vomiting starts. The longer that…."

"When?" Zechs interrupted, frowning. "Not, if? I feel fine."

"When, not if. At least for you and the Major. You were both definitely exposed," Sinclair confirmed. "The longer it is between now and then, the lower the dose you took, and the less severe the follow up symptoms will be now and after the latent phase."

Zechs nodded but he didn't look happy. "All right. How long is it likely to last?"

Sinclair shot Zechs a speculative look. "Anything from a few minutes to a few days," he answered. "It's a multi-type exposure – Iodine and Caesium. We knew it was possible; we're prepped for it – I'll be issuing Prussian Blue and Iodine tablets to the whole crew – but it's still radiation acting on organic tissue. Everyone's tolerance is different."

Zechs nodded again.

Treize took the opportunity to take back control of his briefing. "Thank you, Doctor. So," he said to the officer's around the table, "we have an unknown hostile, a damaged command ship and a third of our strength out of action. Let's go prove what we're made of."

He paused for a moment, then made eye contact with every officer round the table. "Captain Chennault is currently resting," he said evenly, explaining the Wing Second's absence for the first time. "When and if it's needed, he'll relieve me and take command. I expect you all to give him the respect and assistance you would me – we'll deal with the consequences at a later date," he added, quelling another round of rustling as the assembled officers realised Chennault had agreed to do something that might cost him his career and his commission – product of European nobility that the Specials were, there was no mechanism in their regulations for the relief of a superior officer by a junior that didn't mandate an automatic courtmartial.

He looked at Zechs. "Can you be ready to hand off control of your Squadron, if necessary? If nothing else, Chennault will need you to back him."

Zechs scowled at him for a moment, then nodded and flicked a look at Aristedes. "Ari?" he asked and the Greek officer nodded immediately.

"Of course," he said, offering the other blond a small smile.

Treize blinked in surprise. Zechs's choice made perfect sense – as the commander of the marine squadron, Aristedes had the least to do on a space deployment and was perfectly capable of piloting a Leo besides – but last time Treize had checked Zechs certainly hadn't been on civil terms with the other man, much less using nicknames.

The surprise grew even more when, as Treize dismissed the briefing, Leander and Zechs hurried from the room together, blond heads bent towards each other.

Four hours later, Treize had finally resumed his briefing with General Catalonia, reassuring his worried uncle that he was fine and informing his irritated Commander of the events of the past few hours.

The man had scowled so hard at the reports that Treize had been concerned he would do himself an injury.

"Do you need a relief ship?" Catalonia demanded as the briefing wound to a close, and Treize shook his head, eager to have it over.

"No, sir. The ship is serviceable and we have sufficient able pilots and suits to be more than capable of defending ourselves if needs be. Dr Sinclair assures me that those injured are stable enough that an emergency evac isn't needed."

"And yourself?" the older man asked, ever insightful. "You didn't ask me about Chennault for fun, Treize."

Treize nodded. "No, I didn't. I've felt better but Sinclair assures me I'll be fine."

"Certain?"

"Yes, sir," Treize insisted.

Catalonia gave a sharp nod. "Excellent. One last thing before I let you go, then," he said, and Treize suppressed a groan.

"Sir?" he asked politely.

"Your little Marquise… he made Ace with his sortie earlier. We've had the data analysed now – his confirmed kill-count is 11. He'll likely be decorated, too. Military Flying Medal, maybe. Possibly the Distinguished Service Order. I'll make a thing of it at Christmas. Get the press involved." He paused. "He was a good choice, Treize. I didn't think he'd take to it like this, but you were right."

Treize inclined his head. "Thank you, sir."

"Not that you weren't right about the whole thing. You're breeding a Wing of aces, there, lad. Young, well-bred, unbeatable. Bloody good PR."

"Thank you, sir," Treize said again.

Catalonia waved a hand. "You look like death warmed up, lad. Go. We'll talk about this when you're back on Earth."

Treize nodded again, then waited for the signal to cut off, leaving his laptop screen black, before dropping back to lie on his bunk, exhausted and swallowing against the nausea twisting his gut repeatedly.

He lay there for a few minutes, and had just about decided to give up and get it over with when a knock at his door disturbed him. He bit off his second groan in less than ten minutes, lifting his head to bid whoever it was to enter.

He swung his feet down and sat up as the hatch opened, regretting it as soon as he did it.

"Okay," Zechs said from somewhere above him. "I came to see how you were doing but I think I know." He crossed the room, closing the hatch behind him and stopping and bending smoothly mid walk. "You're an interesting colour there, sir," he said, dry humour touching his voice. "Here."

Treize would have replied; instead he thought it better to simply take the waste-paper bin Zechs offered him and close his eyes.