by Casey Herzog
Peter screamed in terror as the door shut in an instant. He was floating in complete darkness, unable to see even the walls of the room around him. His eyes widened and he began to perspire as his head turned in all directions. He wanted to see something, a blip or a light or anything. His breath came in rapid gasps as he fell into a panic. He couldn’t think of anything, no plan coming to him. He was drowning in the darkness. He couldn’t breathe. The darkness was filling his lungs and his body grew hot as he tried to scream and take breaths together.
There was a sound. Something else was moving in the room. This should have made Peter more nervous, but it had just the opposite effect. Hearing something, knowing he wasn’t alone, was a boon. He turned his head in the direction of the noise, but to no effect. He tried to call out, but he couldn’t. He could only struggle to turn his body, desperate to move closer to that noise for comfort.
“He’s in your sights. Rush him!”
Peter’s eyes widened as he heard a voice behind him. He did not know which direction to look, and the panic hit him again as the unknown voice’s words sank in. His head swiveled in several directions. It was a futile gesture. He could not see anything, in any direction. His own manic breathing made it all but impossible to hear whoever else was in the room with him. All he could do was thrash against the darkness.
Pain erupted. Something had struck him. He yelled in agony, memories of the diamond mines returning as he doubled over, clutching his right hand. Even in the total darkness, he could tell he was bleeding. As he wrapped his right hand up in his left his panic deepened yet further. He could not feel his fingers. Whatever was in the room with him had severed three fingers from his right hand.
There was no way that Peter could defend himself. He found his voice and yelled. He screamed as loudly as he could into the darkness. Only raising help from the outside could help him now. Without shame or hesitation, Peter curled his whole body like some hedgehog and yelled "Murder" at the top of his lungs.
Whoever was in the room with him swore. "You missed him!"
"Never mind that! Go, go!"
There were uncertain sounds all around. The walls echoed, something moved. The dark that surrounded Peter broke. A ray of light shone in. With tear stained eyes, Peter looked to the light, two figures passing through it. Despite the pain, he knew he should try and take in something of his assailants. It was impossible though. All he could take in of the fleeing figures were their forms, the grey of their Unity flight suits. Before he could see anything else, the door shut fast again. Peter was now alone in the dark. He screamed again.
He didn't know how long he was in the dark. It was too long. His yells went unheard. He felt his back connect with the wall. It was some relief, but he couldn't tell which direction to push off from. He had lost his orientation with the door. He had to take a chance. He hissed in pain as he grabbed a bar with his blood slick hands. It was agony, but he managed to keep a hold. Rather than push off at random, he pulled himself along the bar. He felt his way with his good hand, searching for the door.
When the door opened again, Peter flinched. He let go of the bar he had been holding to shield his eyes from the light. Whoever had entered had re-engaged the lights. Their glare burned his retinas, and he took a few minutes to comprehend what was happening.
The room was like some nightmare. Peter floated amidst a sea of small red jewels. They reminded him of tiny Christmas tree decorations. Their beautiful look made it all the more horrific to consider that this was his blood. As he looked to his hand, he could see more of the little globules spewing out of him like he was some kind of confection machine throwing out cherry gumballs.
Three older crewmen from Mars Cohort shot into the room. The first floated straight to Peter, while the other went to the intercom. He yelled for the chiefs. In moments, the station came alive. There was a siren, the general alarm waking every cohort at once.
Peter did not like to be the center of attention. He could not help it. Years of hearing his name on the lips of others grated on him. It put him on edge. Right now, Peter felt like he was lying on a bed of nails. His name was the only thing anyone was saying. In the mess, in the Admiral's office, every duty station: there would be only one room where no one was talking about him.
The medical bay on the works rotunda was now christened in blood. Peter was the first crewman to use its facilities. It was a dubious honor. It was the first blood drawn in the Unity's mission, drawn between members of the crew.
Chief Anna Scott was the ship's main medical officer. She spent most of her time keeping an eye on the cohorts during their maintenance programs. She was also the ship’s psychologist. She had seemed somehow bored, listless. Peter noticed her always staring off into space, her voice lacking passion or interest whenever dealing with the cohorts. Seeing her now, he understood her better. Her heart lay in medicine. She sat by Peter, her brown eyes narrowed with concentration. She bit her bottom lip as she worked. Despite the horror he felt at seeing his own severed fingers held by someone else, so far from his hand, he found it stranger still noticing the smile on Scott's face. It was the weirdest and most unsettling thing. She held his severed fingers close to her eye, then looked to the bloody stumps he held out to her.
"You're a lucky guy, Gabell." Scott shot him a smile, confident and cocky.
It was still a struggle to speak. Every finger movement, every involuntary spasm of his nerves sent fire through his whole arm. "Yeah, I am feeling so lucky right now."
The chief shot him a look, a kind of warning glare not to wisecrack her. "I can reattach your fingers. Cut at more of an angle, and you might not have been so lucky."
Peter couldn't argue with that. He hadn't even considered a reattachment. He assumed, along with his face, his hand was beyond repair.
"You’re certain? I'll be exactly as I was, like it had never happened?"
Scott took in a sharp breath. "I wouldn't stretch it that far." The doctor returned the finger she was holding to the small blue box that held the others. They were being kept on ice, and she moved them to a small container that looked like some kind of fridge. "I like to think I can work miracles, but there will be differences. For starters, I'm going to have to shorten the bone on your severed fingers..." She trailed off and looked to her Peter. There had been excitement in her voice. "I'm sorry; kind of lost my touch with keeping my patients at ease. You don't want to know the details of what I'm going to do. All you need to know is that you'll need an x-ray and I will need to run blood tests."
"That sounds like it will take time." Peter knew nothing about this kind of thing, but he did not like the idea of his fingers remaining apart from his body for long.
"Could be a day, two days...tops three." Scott moved to another station and began preparing a syringe.
"That long?" Peter moved his good hand to his forehead, wiping sweat from his brow.
"I need to identify the nerves and blood vessels of each finger and have them mapped for reattachment. I could rush the procedure, but then you're less likely to see your fingers gaining back their functionality." Scott paused in her work, seeming to want an answer from him.
"Fine, I can hold out a few days." Peter's eyes looked to the IV line on his arm.
"If it is any comfort, I can keep you out of it for most of the time. You're already pretty hopped up. If you weren't, I doubt we'd be having this conversation." Scott moved over and put the needle in his arm. Peter didn't even bother to ask what the cocktail he was taking in did. Instead, he looked to his bloody and bandaged stumps.
"Do you know who did this?"
"Not my concern. That's up to the other chiefs. I know it's taking longer than it should. Between the vid monitors and constant rotations of staff, finding who did this to you should be easy. Considering that they haven't found anyone yet, it seems your attackers had things well planned out." Scott removed the needle and put a cotton bud to Peter's arm. "That should keep the pain down. Let's get you X-rayed, and then, I wa
nt you to sleep."
Time passed in a strange blur. Between bouts of sleep Peter watched Chief Scott working. She had a ruthless quality about her in the medical wing. It was a world away from the quiet, bored looking chief he had seen previously. He was not sure how she managed it, but she was able to keep the other chiefs from invading her domain. No one disturbed her patient, not even Admiral Gayle. Peter was sure he had questions about what had happened to him. However, even the Admiral seemed incapable of invading the medical chief's fortress. In some ways, he wished his physician would let him have some company, even an interrogation. At least conversation would allow him to pass his bouts of consciousness without having to stare in silence at his mangled hand.
He didn't know how much time he had to wait. Suddenly, in one of his waking moments, Chief Scott announced she was ready and was putting him under general anesthetic. He woke up later with his hand in thick bandages and the assumption his fingers had to be somewhere underneath the wrappings.
Visitors came all at once. The first was Admiral Gayle. He came with two other chiefs of staff, eager to hear Peter's story. As it turned out, Peter's confused memory of the attack was the only lead the chiefs had left to go on. Gayle did not give many details, but it was obvious the attackers had somehow slipped through the net. When Peter proved unable to provide an identity for his attackers, this first set of visitors left disappointed.
Alphred and Minerva were next on the list of appointed guests allowed to see Peter.
As Chief Scott admitted the pair, she let out a hiss of frustration as the Amazonian form of Minerva pushed past her. Peter flinched as he saw her approach, and shielded his bandaged arm. He was glad he did so. Minerva threw her arms around him and clung to him like he was a life buoy, and she was adrift in an ocean. "My God, Peter! You have no idea....no idea how worried I've been. I can't..." Her emotions stopped her from finishing.
Peter hissed and struggled to free himself from Minerva's grip. "Yeah...I think I got an idea. You're really hurting me here Min."
As fast as she had wrapped herself around him, Minerva leapt off of him like her life buoy was now a shark. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She bit her lip and looked to Chief Scott. The chief didn't make any comment, but her folded arms and contemptuous look spoke volumes.
Alphred came forward with more reserve, giving his own disapproving glance to Minerva as he passed her. "It is good to see you recovered. I understand your fingers are going to heal fine."
"He should find their strength returning in time, and could see them regain most of their former strength. They will never be quite the same again though." Chief Scott answered on his behalf.
"I'm sure I'll be fine," Peter assured. Sitting upright, he gave his commander his full attention. "So, no luck catching my attackers then?"
"None. I have done all within my power to help the investigation, as has Pluto Cohort. Of course, our own team are being treated with the most suspicion. The team has responded admirably though. Everyone came forward for questioning without hesitation, and there has been a marked improvement in unit cohesion over the last few days."
"Great, as soon as they have me out of the picture they finally get their wish and start behaving themselves." Peter let out a short breath.
Minerva took a nearby seat and took his hand. "It's not like that Peter. If you trust anyone to say it, trust me. Your attack really shook up the cohort. Everyone has been asking for updates on you, wanting to know how you were doing."
Peter might not have believed it from anyone, but from Minerva he had no choice. She knew what it was to be the pariah, and she wouldn't toy with his emotions on the matter. "So, who's been asking after me?"
"Everyone, but Nisha and Michael have been bugging me for information the most." Alphred answered the question, triggering a thought in Peter.
"Michael has been?" His mind returned to the overheard conversation in the dorms. "Michael was one of the most opposed to my being your third."
"Well his tune seems to have changed."
Minerva looked down at the commander as he spoke to Peter. "Do you think he had something to do with the attack on you?"
As Peter looked at his Martian friend, he could sense her desire to see his attackers brought to justice. There was something in her eyes, a more switched on, steely gaze. He wished she could just keep an upbeat smile for him.
"I don't know, but I'm not going to go pointing the finger when there's no evidence. How did that happen anyway? How do the chiefs have no leads?"
"A sophisticated rewiring of system operations. The attack had to be premeditated. Your attackers programmed all cameras on the Unity to turn off at once. As the operation was an authorized command, no alert came out to say it had happened. Using this and the brief window of change over between cohort duty shifts, your attackers were able to get to you undetected."
"How good is Michael's tech knowledge?" Minerva asked the question with a fierceness that Peter didn't feel suited her.
"It doesn't matter." Peter was emphatic, his eyes set on something more important than his attack.
"We need to get our cohort back in line. You've been saying this the entire time, right Alphred?"
Peter raised his bandaged arm a little. "If this is going to buy us some sympathy from the team, we need to be using it to forge stronger bonds."
Minerva took a step back, back straightening to her full height. "You're not saying this just to take an opportunity to fit in and make friends out of them all, are you?"
Alphred shook his head, eyes rolling. "Peter's right. It's not about friendship Tharsis. We need control of our cohort, and must use every opportunity given us."
Minerva stayed quiet.
"Can I leave the wing now Chief Scott? My hand's all wrapped up now. I can't need any more rest."
The chief shrugged. "You aren't to perform any work, or travel unaccompanied for the time being. If you want to go show off your wounds for your cohort's sympathy, I won’t stop you."
Alphred clapped his hands together. "Excellent. Rest time for Pluto is in two hours. We'll bring you down to the mess and look to see if we can build up our morale."
"I'm staying here with him and will bring him down, Commander." Minerva took her place by Peter's bed. She not going to take no as an answer by the look of her.
Alphred nodded. "See you both shortly then."
The two watched the commander leave. The moment the med bay door closed, Minerva whipped her head round to Peter. By her steely gaze, Peter knew she was not planning to sit next to him and apply sympathy.
"What are you thinking?"
CHAPTER 14
Mars. As the red planet drew closer, the excitement among the Unity's crew grew. It has always been visible. Anyone with a decent grasp of navigation and star alignments relative to ship position could have pointed out the speck in the void that was their first point of destination. As it was her home, Minerva was very good at this. Still, excitement had mounted ever since that small speck of light had begun to grow in the viewport, swelling like some inflatable beach ball, it's red hue becoming more and more distinct as it reflected the sun’s rays back towards the Unity.
Peter began to associate the growth of the planet with his own healing. The injury he had sustained at the hands of still unknown assailants had been slow and arduous. The chiefs of staff seemed determined to use his injury as a way of keeping him excluded from all but the least stimulating of work and maintenance. This meant, while the rest of Pluto Cohort attended their Zero-G combat training or EVA work, he was stuck checking the hydroponic gardens or cleaning the mess. It felt like a punishment, odd considering he was the victim in this scenario.
Still, despite being ostracized from his cohort physically, he was somehow closer than he had ever been to his peers. The unexplained assault in the combat training room had a most surprising reaction within the cohort, with many declaring quite passionately that an attack against one was an attack against all. It didn't seem to matter that
Peter had been the pariah, the black sheep who had never truly earned his place. What mattered now was that someone had tried to weaken Pluto Cohort, weaken the integrity of the mission itself. This was enough to make the majority of the crew abandon their long-held grudges against Peter out of a desire to show loyalty to the mission. Even members of other cohorts seemed to treat him with greater deference. It bordered on coddling, but he did not mind it at all.
Even those who might still have secretly harbored resentment toward him seemed to have suddenly changed their tune. Michael and the other boys in Pluto Cohort who had been the most vocal in their complaints in the past, now made no attempt to speak out against their third in command. To do such a thing invited scrutiny. They had already faced a slew of interviews over the last weeks. They were left under no illusions as to where the chiefs’ suspicions lay regarding the attack. Knowing they were on thin ice, they kept their opinions on Peter to themselves and adopted a policy of “If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.”