Chapter 3: Ashes in my mouth
Everyone slumped against the walls in the hallway. Francis was having hysterics. Ken and Marie were crying. Delia, Helena's elder sister, was slumped lifelessly.
"Helena," she moaned.
"Is everyone alright?" I asked. "Is anyone hurt?"
Jesse shook his head dully. "Bruises, scrapes. We're fine." Plus lots of micro-capillary ruptures. In a few hours we'd be black and blue all over except for where we'd been wearing breathers. Zero pressure isn't kind to bare skin.
I was alive.
I could feel my heart pounding. It felt like it was going to pound its way out of my chest.
"My arm," Cara had stayed quiet. Her arm was at an odd angle. An impossible angle. She was cradling it, rubbing around the break. "I hit the door-frame."
"The infirmary is up this way."
"I don't think I can stand."
"Injured, or just wobbly?"
"Wobbly."
I hooked an arm around her waist. "Jesse, take the other side." He slid an arm under her good shoulder and we lifted, then walked her down the hall. Cara was pale under her bronze colouring and, for once in her life, silent. We were close to the door we needed, and I was glad of that, but we weren't the first ones there. There were several people there, badly injured, and the ship only had one nurse.
I sat Cara on a chair, since the beds were taken, and told Jesse to stay there. He did. I think he was still in shock.
One of the injured was in a suit, with a large shard of metal through his gut. I mean, right through. He was screaming. Abruptly he stopped. The blood kept trickling onto the floor. I can still remember how the new drops sent radiated spatter out all over the furniture and my trousers and boots. I remember the stench of burned flesh, and whimpers of pain and someone crying that they didn't know what to do.
I had taken a first aid course. I could see the metal shard had perforated the intestines and bladder. I didn't even bother trying to save him. He was dead; he just hadn't stopped breathing. I moved on to the next, a woman I recognised as a pastry chef with a metal splinter in her arm. "It's missed the major arteries and veins," I told her. "I can pull it out and suture you up, I think. If you'd rather wait for the nurse…"
She looked at the nurse who was busy trying to treat a chest wound. "I don't want to wait." She bit her lip. I fished in the medical case. "Morphine?"
"I'm allergic to it."
"It's all there is in here I know how to use."
"Then do without."
"Jesse," I called him.
"What?"
"Hold her arm still. I mean, really still." I got out a needle and thread, glad I knew how to use them. "Just in case, what blood type are you?"
"A positive."
"Good. Now bite on this." I stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth. "Trust me, otherwise you'll bite your tongue." She nodded, eyes wide - she was the kind of petite woman with naturally humongous eyes. It made her look five years old. I set my teeth, offered up a silent prayer and yanked. Blood oozed rather than spurted. I soaked a cloth in iodine and wiped the wound clean. If Jesse hadn't been holding her elbow, his hands acting as both restraint and tourniquet, it would have been impossible for me to get the wound cleaned - I had to take out a few nasty metal splinters as well - and suture it. Finally I was about to bandage it when the nurse looked at it and nodded.
"It'll do," he said and went back to work. I did the same. I was in that sick-bay for over an hour treating the minor injuries.
Cuts. A concussion that just needed ice and a place to lie down. Bad bruises. Some broken bones. I wondered how the fight was going.
It couldn't be going too badly for us. We were still alive.
When I finally got a chance to wash the blood and iodine and other things from my hands the skin was starting to turn dark from the blow-out and my head was aching. I felt nauseous.
Jesse steered me out of the sick-bay. "Have you had breakfast?" he asked me.
"What?" I knew he'd spoken, but I couldn't understand it. It was like he was speaking another language.
"Have you had breakfast?" he repeated.
I'd just killed a friend. My home city had been nuked. We were losing a war.
"No. I haven't had breakfast."
"Come on. Let's get something to eat and some coffee."
The kitchen was indeed cooking. So many cooks for swanky food meant they could cook a lot of plain fare fast. I noticed they were only using the electric elements and asked why.
"The gas line ruptured. We shut it down; didn't want to take a chance." The most vulnerable part of the methane piping was the section leading into the stove itself.
I frowned. "Let me see." I dived into the cupboard and had a good look. "Does anyone have a light?" A torch was passed down as I curled my legs up to keep out of the way. "Oh, it's nothing serious. The connector ring on this bit of piping has gone, that's all." I came out. "Give me a spare piece of piping and a few tools and I can fix it in five minutes."
"What do you know, a rich kid who knows something practical," the kitchen-hand muttered.
I grinned at him. "My family own a pig farm. I was a scholarship girl." His nose twitched and he turned back to cleaning a frying pan.
True to my word, five minutes later I'd cleaned my hands again and was seated at a table gulping coffee and guzzling pancakes. Social conventions be damned, I was hungry.
Hungry. I'd just killed Helena to save myself and I could die at any minute. "What's going on?" I asked after my first rush of hunger was appeased. "Are we out of the combat zone?"
"The captain made an announcement while you were in the sickbay," Jesse sat across from me. He didn't seem to want to be near me. "We'd headed right into the main fight and he had us run away at top speed, but we took damage. Space debris, and some missiles the guns shot down. He's trying to find us a place to hide. Things aren't going well out there."
"We've been listening to the wireless," the kitchen-hand said. "The Fleet's lost nearly half the Battlestars. Every colony has been nuked. The President is dead. We're losing the war. Badly."
"To a Cylon, there are no non-combatants," I quoted softly. "They must have been planning this for forty years, building up their forces, gathering intelligence… and we never even knew."
"So… you're saying they're trying to kill everyone?" I looked at the colourless face of a maid.
"Yes," I said finally. I hunted for something else to say, something inspirational or consoling, but my skin hurt and my lungs ached and the fingernail marks on my arms stung and Helena's scream echoed in my head and I kept seeing blood dripping onto the floor and Jesse's eyes wide in horror whenever I closed my eyes and I smelled of burned insulation and bile, and suddenly the top-notch food tasted like ashes in my mouth. I couldn't think of a thing to say.
"Hey," someone else stuck their head around the door. "Captain wants to talk to you." Jesse got up. "No, her." He pointed at me.
"Why?" Jesse asked.
"I haven't a clue. You want the rest of this?"
"Well, yes, but…"
I gulped the last of the coffee. "Thanks for that, chef," I said and left. You don't keep the Captain waiting.
Everyone slumped against the walls in the hallway. Francis was having hysterics. Ken and Marie were crying. Delia, Helena's elder sister, was slumped lifelessly.
"Helena," she moaned.
"Is everyone alright?" I asked. "Is anyone hurt?"
Jesse shook his head dully. "Bruises, scrapes. We're fine." Plus lots of micro-capillary ruptures. In a few hours we'd be black and blue all over except for where we'd been wearing breathers. Zero pressure isn't kind to bare skin.
I was alive.
I could feel my heart pounding. It felt like it was going to pound its way out of my chest.
"My arm," Cara had stayed quiet. Her arm was at an odd angle. An impossible angle. She was cradling it, rubbing around the break. "I hit the door-frame."
"The infirmary is up this way."
"I don't think I can stand."
"Injured, or just wobbly?"
"Wobbly."
I hooked an arm around her waist. "Jesse, take the other side." He slid an arm under her good shoulder and we lifted, then walked her down the hall. Cara was pale under her bronze colouring and, for once in her life, silent. We were close to the door we needed, and I was glad of that, but we weren't the first ones there. There were several people there, badly injured, and the ship only had one nurse.
I sat Cara on a chair, since the beds were taken, and told Jesse to stay there. He did. I think he was still in shock.
One of the injured was in a suit, with a large shard of metal through his gut. I mean, right through. He was screaming. Abruptly he stopped. The blood kept trickling onto the floor. I can still remember how the new drops sent radiated spatter out all over the furniture and my trousers and boots. I remember the stench of burned flesh, and whimpers of pain and someone crying that they didn't know what to do.
I had taken a first aid course. I could see the metal shard had perforated the intestines and bladder. I didn't even bother trying to save him. He was dead; he just hadn't stopped breathing. I moved on to the next, a woman I recognised as a pastry chef with a metal splinter in her arm. "It's missed the major arteries and veins," I told her. "I can pull it out and suture you up, I think. If you'd rather wait for the nurse…"
She looked at the nurse who was busy trying to treat a chest wound. "I don't want to wait." She bit her lip. I fished in the medical case. "Morphine?"
"I'm allergic to it."
"It's all there is in here I know how to use."
"Then do without."
"Jesse," I called him.
"What?"
"Hold her arm still. I mean, really still." I got out a needle and thread, glad I knew how to use them. "Just in case, what blood type are you?"
"A positive."
"Good. Now bite on this." I stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth. "Trust me, otherwise you'll bite your tongue." She nodded, eyes wide - she was the kind of petite woman with naturally humongous eyes. It made her look five years old. I set my teeth, offered up a silent prayer and yanked. Blood oozed rather than spurted. I soaked a cloth in iodine and wiped the wound clean. If Jesse hadn't been holding her elbow, his hands acting as both restraint and tourniquet, it would have been impossible for me to get the wound cleaned - I had to take out a few nasty metal splinters as well - and suture it. Finally I was about to bandage it when the nurse looked at it and nodded.
"It'll do," he said and went back to work. I did the same. I was in that sick-bay for over an hour treating the minor injuries.
Cuts. A concussion that just needed ice and a place to lie down. Bad bruises. Some broken bones. I wondered how the fight was going.
It couldn't be going too badly for us. We were still alive.
When I finally got a chance to wash the blood and iodine and other things from my hands the skin was starting to turn dark from the blow-out and my head was aching. I felt nauseous.
Jesse steered me out of the sick-bay. "Have you had breakfast?" he asked me.
"What?" I knew he'd spoken, but I couldn't understand it. It was like he was speaking another language.
"Have you had breakfast?" he repeated.
I'd just killed a friend. My home city had been nuked. We were losing a war.
"No. I haven't had breakfast."
"Come on. Let's get something to eat and some coffee."
The kitchen was indeed cooking. So many cooks for swanky food meant they could cook a lot of plain fare fast. I noticed they were only using the electric elements and asked why.
"The gas line ruptured. We shut it down; didn't want to take a chance." The most vulnerable part of the methane piping was the section leading into the stove itself.
I frowned. "Let me see." I dived into the cupboard and had a good look. "Does anyone have a light?" A torch was passed down as I curled my legs up to keep out of the way. "Oh, it's nothing serious. The connector ring on this bit of piping has gone, that's all." I came out. "Give me a spare piece of piping and a few tools and I can fix it in five minutes."
"What do you know, a rich kid who knows something practical," the kitchen-hand muttered.
I grinned at him. "My family own a pig farm. I was a scholarship girl." His nose twitched and he turned back to cleaning a frying pan.
True to my word, five minutes later I'd cleaned my hands again and was seated at a table gulping coffee and guzzling pancakes. Social conventions be damned, I was hungry.
Hungry. I'd just killed Helena to save myself and I could die at any minute. "What's going on?" I asked after my first rush of hunger was appeased. "Are we out of the combat zone?"
"The captain made an announcement while you were in the sickbay," Jesse sat across from me. He didn't seem to want to be near me. "We'd headed right into the main fight and he had us run away at top speed, but we took damage. Space debris, and some missiles the guns shot down. He's trying to find us a place to hide. Things aren't going well out there."
"We've been listening to the wireless," the kitchen-hand said. "The Fleet's lost nearly half the Battlestars. Every colony has been nuked. The President is dead. We're losing the war. Badly."
"To a Cylon, there are no non-combatants," I quoted softly. "They must have been planning this for forty years, building up their forces, gathering intelligence… and we never even knew."
"So… you're saying they're trying to kill everyone?" I looked at the colourless face of a maid.
"Yes," I said finally. I hunted for something else to say, something inspirational or consoling, but my skin hurt and my lungs ached and the fingernail marks on my arms stung and Helena's scream echoed in my head and I kept seeing blood dripping onto the floor and Jesse's eyes wide in horror whenever I closed my eyes and I smelled of burned insulation and bile, and suddenly the top-notch food tasted like ashes in my mouth. I couldn't think of a thing to say.
"Hey," someone else stuck their head around the door. "Captain wants to talk to you." Jesse got up. "No, her." He pointed at me.
"Why?" Jesse asked.
"I haven't a clue. You want the rest of this?"
"Well, yes, but…"
I gulped the last of the coffee. "Thanks for that, chef," I said and left. You don't keep the Captain waiting.