A/N: Here's Chapter 3, introducing Irlo, a character I've created for the purpose of this fic and that I like very much. Also, thank you Cameron1812 for your reviews, I'm happy you enjoy the story ;)
The sun stood at its zenith, casting its harsh, scorching rays on the windswept erg that bordered the Shield Wall. Amidst the area's vast orange Spice-fields lay the charred carcass of a Spice Harvester; in the sand around it, the numerous bodies of both Harkonnens and Fremen, casualties of the bloody, merciless battle that had just taken place there.
A few kilometres to the west, the surviving members of Stilgar's Fedaykin had taken refuge in a stretch of large, jagged rocks, which not only shielded them from the burning sun and enemy eyes, but offered them a safe spot in the middle of worm territory.
Chani knelt down in the sand, the grim reality of their situation only just beginning to sink in. Of the twenty-eight fighters that had left the camp in the morning, seventeen remained. They'd lost eleven men and women to the Harkonnens. It wasn't the first time her tribe suffered heavy losses – but not like this. Not so many at once. Not so many of those she had known all her life, those she considered family.
She felt her eyes sting, but a small voice inside her head reminded her never to waste her water on the dead. The dead didn't need her anymore.
She forced herself to focus. Paul. Paul needed her. She knew she definitely needed him.
He was lying on the sand in front of her, right where Stilgar had just carefully dropped him. He was now busy removing Paul's headgear and mask, while Shishakli used her crysknife to slice through the fabric of his stillsuit. A stillsuit was a valuable piece of equipment in the desert, not to be wasted – but the bullet holes had already damaged the integrity of the suit's filtration systems, rendering it useless for the time being. Shishakli ensured the catchpockets remained intact, however, saving the precious water that had accumulated inside.
Under his mask and goggles, Paul's face was pale and clammy, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. His blue eyes were half-open, and his breaths came in quick, laboured gasps. He let out a weak cough; panic rose in Chani's throat when she saw a trickle of blood escape his lips, running down his cheek. She wasn't sure what it meant – but she knew it meant nothing good.
Once Shishakli was done cutting the suit open, Stilgar cautiously peeled it off Paul's body. His chest was covered in blood. At first, Chani couldn't even distinguish where it originated from; it took her a moment to locate the bullet wound, on the left side of his ribcage. Her eyes travelled down to his thigh, where bright red blood spurted from the second wound in a regular, pulsating rhythm. Stilgar swore under his breath, promptly grabbed the damaged stillsuit's belt and tied it tightly around Paul's upper leg.
Behind him, Chani saw another man approach. He was a tall, middle-aged individual with dark brown skin named Irlo – the only one in their group who had a good deal of medical experience.
"Nidam didn't make it", Irlo said, his voice flat but his expression grim, as he squatted down beside them.
Chani stared at him, perplexed. Nidam? What was the man talking about? She hadn't seen Nidam since before the –
Oh. She glanced over Irlo's shoulder and saw the familiar silhouette lying motionless on the ground a few metres away, the right side of his head smeared in crimson blood. Her heart sank. She couldn't help but feel a sudden pinch of guilt. She'd been so focused on Paul she hadn't even noticed the Fedaykin carrying another of their wounded men off the battlefield. One that had, if Irlo was to be believed, just succumbed to his injuries.
She was fiercely determined to not let Paul Atreides be next.
They could consider themselves lucky, she thought, to have Irlo among them. Chani had always liked him – a kind, down-to-earth man with impressive knowledge and skill. When he wasn't acting as a combat medic in the open desert, he was often seen assisting Sietch Tabr's healers and physicians in their tasks. Incidentally, he was one of the few Fremen of the older generations who didn't believe in the prophecy of the Lisan Al-Gaib. "I am a man of science", he had once told Chani after she'd questioned him about it. "Science and religion can only coexist to a certain degree. At one point or another, they become mutually exclusive." Chani didn't consider herself a woman of science by any means, but she sensed truth in Irlo's words.
Irlo's eyes quickly scanned Paul's body while he pressed two fingers on the side of his neck, feeling his pulse.
"Let's roll him over", he said. "I need to check for exit wounds."
Stilgar nodded and rolled Paul over to his side, letting Irlo examine his back. Just as Chani had suspected, the bullet to his leg had gone through, leaving an ugly, jagged-edged wound on the back of his thigh. There was no second exit wound to be found – the other bullet was still in the body. Chani wasn't sure whether it made matters better or worse. Paul coughed again, more red blood trickling down his chin.
"Okay", Irlo said. "There's pulsating bleeding there" – he gestured to the leg – "meaning the bullet probably nicked the femoral artery. The second one went in between the ribs and is lodged somewhere in the chest – and since he's coughing up blood, I reckon it injured the lung along the way."
Chani swallowed hard. That didn't sound good. Not at all.
Once Paul lay on his back again, Irlo leaned forward, his face close to his patient's.
"Paul, can you hear me?" he asked. He was one of the tribe members who always addressed Paul using his birthname, rather than the Fremen name Stilgar had chosen for him. Paul's eyes were still open, but Chani couldn't tell if he was aware of his surroundings. His lips had taken a blueish tint, in stark contrast to the pale, grey tones of his skin. If it weren't for the quick, irregular rising and falling of his chest, he would have looked very much dead.
"You're in the desert. You were shot by Harkonnen soldiers. We're going to take care of you, all right? Just try to stay conscious." Irlo's voice was calm and reassuring. He then turned back to his comrades.
"It's bad", he declared. Chani knew it, but hearing it from Irlo's mouth only added to her fear. "The damage to the artery needs to be repaired, and the bullet to the chest will need to be removed, but he's too unstable to do it now. He's losing too much blood. We need to get the haemorrhage under control before we do anything else."
He shrugged the fremkit he was carrying off his shoulder and opened it. Every fremkit came with a basic, easy-to-use first aid kit, but Irlo, well-prepared, always carried his own medical equipment, a wide selection of medicine, bandages and surgical tools that had, over the years, saved numerous lives on the battlefield.
He pulled a short plastic rod from the fremkit, slipped it under the belt tied around Paul's thigh and twisted it, tightening the belt until the bright red bleeding from the wound stopped. Chani looked at the pool of blood that had spread in the sand. There was something deeply disturbing about witnessing such quantities of precious fluid escape from a body so quickly. The Fremen, Paul had taught her, had developed extremely fast blood-clotting abilities over millennia of living on Arrakis, a natural mutation to save moisture on a water-less planet. Exposure to Spice may have given Paul the Fremen's characteristic blue-within-blue eyes, but the rest of his body still functioned very much like an outworlder's.
Irlo rummaged through his backpack and grabbed a black plastic pouch containing some sort of liquid, as well as a length of thin black tubing.
"What is that?" Chani asked. It didn't look like anything the Fremen manufactured.
"Universal synthetic blood, one litre of it", Irlo said. "Our people managed to steal a handful of these from a Harkonnen base a couple of months ago."
Chani's lips curled up in disgust.
"Harkonnen? And you plan to use that?"
Irlo gave her a half-smile.
"A human body is a human body, Chani", he said. "The Harkonnens may not always seem like it, but they're made of flesh and blood like the rest of us. Paul needs blood, and that's exactly what this is for."
He then looked over at Stilgar, who was also eyeing the fluid bag with a dubious expression.
"Stil, let's set up camp here. We can't move him, and I'm going to need a tent with good lighting once I'm finished here."
Stilgar nodded, rose to his feet and started shouting orders to his Fedaykin. Chani glanced over her shoulder at her people. Some of them were sitting on boulders or in the sand, cleaning their weapons or staring at Paul and Irlo in silence; a few others, she noticed, were praying. Chani couldn't hear their voices, but she could easily imagine what they were praying for – the survival of their Lisan Al-Gaib. She fought back the urge to yell that it certainly wasn't religious fervour that would save Paul Atreides' life. If anything, it would be Irlo's abilities – and, perhaps, a good deal of luck.
The Fremen started blowing up their stilltents, using their sand compactors to hide them underground. They weren't far from Harkonnen outposts, after all, and there was a good possibility their enemy would send spotters to investigate the area, looking for any survivors. It wouldn't be too long before word of the Harvester attack reached their ears.
As the rest of their troop busied themselves around them, Chani and Shishakli watched as Irlo inserted a needle into Paul's arm, then connected the tubing to it. He handed the black bag to Chani.
"Squeeze that in", he said. "The quicker it goes into the bloodstream, the better."
Chani took the strange bag into her hands and did as she was told. The hot desert temperatures had warmed the fluid inside – which was probably a good thing, she reckoned, considering how unnaturally cold Paul's skin felt.
"I'll set up an improvised infirmary in the main tent", Irlo said, collecting the contents of his fremkit. "We'll move him there as soon as that bag is empty."
He walked over to the three Fremen who were building the large stilltent used for meals and gatherings, and started giving them instructions. The wind was strengthening now, and sand particles whirled on the surface of the dunes. On top of a nearby hill, the Fremen were setting up two windtraps to capture the wind's moisture.
It took less than twenty minutes for the synthetic blood bag to be empty. Chani laid the bag down in the sand and anxiously stared at Paul, half-expecting the substance to have some immediate, magical effect. His eyes were closed, and he didn't appear to be conscious, but he was still breathing. His lips, she noticed, weren't quite as blue as they had been before. Irlo soon joined her and checked his patient's pulse again; he looked rather satisfied.
"His pulse is a bit stronger", he told Chani. "That's good. It means his body is responding to the transfusion."
"What now?" Chani asked.
"Let's move him to the main tent. It's too hot and too windy out here for me to work properly."
Upon Irlo's orders, two men carried Paul into the largest of the stilltents, installed in the shade of the high rocky formation. Chani and Shishakli followed them wordlessly. Inside the tent, Irlo had spread out a field pad on the ground, where the Fremen carefully laid Paul on his back. Above the makeshift bed hovered two glowglobes, casting a light almost as bright as the sun outside. To the bed's left, the neatly organised contents of Irlo's backpack lay on a piece of cloth – small vials of tinted glass, strips of linen, a collection of metallic instruments and needles, and a few other items that didn't look familiar.
Irlo grabbed a flask and doused a piece of white fabric in what appeared to be water, then began wiping the blood off Paul's chest and stomach, kneeling beside him. Chani sat cross-legged opposite him, unsure whether she could be of any use, but determined not to leave Paul's side. Seeing the water suddenly made her realise how thirsty she was; she reached for the tube attached to her stillsuit and took a few long sips from her catchpockets.
Once he had a better view of the wound, Irlo cleaned his own hands, then cautiously inserted his index finger in the bullet hole. Chani exchanged a worried look with Shishakli, who stood beside them, nervously biting her lower lip.
"I can't fell the bullet", Irlo said as he probed the wound, his free hand palpating the back of Paul's ribcage. "I'll need to –"
Paul jerked violently under his hands, making Chani jump in surprise. He took in a raspy breath, let out a bloody cough, then another. Chani took his face into her hands and brushed his damp hair from his brow. His eyes fluttered open.
"Usul", she said, trying, but failing, to show as much composure as Irlo did. "It's me. Can you hear me?"
She saw Paul's gaze slowly focus on her, forced a smile. He opened his mouth as if attempting to say something, but was interrupted by another fit of coughing. Chani wiped the blood from his lips with her thumb.
"I can't breathe", he managed to whisper between two gasps, his voice hoarse and barely audible. Chani saw panic flash across his blue eyes, felt fear tearing at her own insides. She looked at Irlo for assistance; he laid a hand on Paul's shoulder, leaning in so Paul could see him.
"Listen, lad, the bullet injured your lung", he explained in a gentle tone. "I have to remove it and drain the blood so you can breathe again, all right?"
Paul nodded weakly. Chani swallowed. As relieved as she was to see Paul come to, she had a sneaking suspicion it would have been best for him to stay unconscious a while longer. She eyed Irlo dubiously as he picked up a sharp surgical knife. He handed Chani a small plastic object that looked like a thick pen; Chani recognised the familiar shape of an auto-injector. She had seen those in use before – disposable, spring-loaded syringes containing a single dose of medication, usually intended for quick self-administration on the battlefield. To her knowledge, they weren't manufactured on Arrakis, but imported by smugglers who made a living providing Arrakeen populations with valuable off-world goods.
"It's a painkiller", Irlo said. "You know how to use this, yes?"
"Yes." Chani placed one hand on Paul's uninjured thigh and pressed the injector-pen against his skin, then pushed the button at its rear end to administer the drug.
"It won't be enough", Irlo stated matter-of-factly, "but I only have few of these left, and he's going to need them."
Chani glanced at Paul, whose breathing seemed to get increasingly laboured, and took his hand in hers, feeling utterly powerless.
Paul flinched as Irlo cut into his skin, enlarging the bullet wound with an incision to gain better access to the underlying tissue. Chani forced herself to look away. She had been around enough blood and injuries in her life to be unbothered by them – but watching Irlo cut open the man she loved suddenly made her feel nauseous.
Paul let out a strangled cry and began to struggle, trying to pull away from Irlo's touch, squeezing Chani's hand so hard it hurt. Chani caught a glimpse of Irlo's bloodstained hands inserting two of his metallic instruments into the wound. She heard Paul scream in agony, then Irlo's tense voice ordering her to hold him down.
For a few seconds, her body refused to comply – she was paralysed, unable to move a single muscle. Stop, she thought frantically. Stop, please. You're hurting him. She came to her senses when she felt Shishakli promptly kneel down beside her, pushing her out of the way and grabbing Paul by the shoulders to hold him steady.
"It's okay", Shishakli said. "Go. I'll do it. Go!", she snapped in a loud, commanding voice. Chani didn't want to leave. But the reasonable part of her mind told her it probably was a good idea. She wasn't being helpful at all, and she wasn't sure she could handle any more of this. She leapt up and ran out of the tent.
As she passed the stilltent's entrance, she nearly bumped into Stilgar. He studied her with narrow eyes as she stood before him, her hands shaking, taking a series of deep breaths to calm herself.
"Hey, hey. Are you alright?" he asked. "What's going on?"
Before she could reply, another scream came from the tent, muffled by the hermetic sphincter door.
"Ah", Stilgar said quietly. He pointed at a nearby boulder. "You, sit down", he ordered. "You look like you're going to be sick."
Chani obeyed as Stilgar disappeared into the stilltent. She certainly felt like she was going to be sick. It frustrated her as much as it surprised her – she wasn't usually the squeamish type. Not at all. But the events of the past few hours, she guessed, all the blood and the pain and the loss, seemed to be taking their toll on her.
Pull yourself together.
She glanced over at the surviving Fedaykin, who had settled around a portable boiler and were brewing Spice coffee, keeping at a respectful distance from the main stilltent. A few of them turned their heads toward her; after studying her in silence for a moment, Omik, who was only a few years older than Chani herself, walked over to her and sat down on the boulder before handing her a cup of hot coffee.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
No, she decidedly wasn't, Chani thought. She looked down at the steaming brown beverage in the cup, then at her hands, covered in Paul's blood and still shaky. She hesitated one instant too long before nodding at Omik, attempting a feeble smile.
Judging by the look of pity in Omik's eyes, he wasn't fooled for a second.
To be continued in...
Chapter 4: Stranded