Katerina lay motionless on her back with her eyes closed, as if she too were only sleeping. Strands of long auburn hair draped her chest like a shroud. Her face and head showed no sign of injury. But her swollen upper left arm was bent at an unnatural angle and there was blood on her thin plaid shirt.
Trembling with terror as he knelt beside her, Martin heard words from old CPR training bubbling back into his brain. Check responsiveness. She may have injured her neck, so open her airway with a jaw thrust. Check breathing and circulation.
Martin quickly placed his ear near her mouth. Yes, he could feel and hear her breathing! Her breaths were shallow and the carotid pulse he palpated was weak, but she was still alive!
Katerina moaned and moved all her arms and legs weakly. He yelled, “Lay still! I'm going to help you!”
Those feeble motions of her limbs told him she might not have broken her neck or back. But she should still have a cervical collar and backboard to keep her spine protected—and he had neither. All he could do was hope they weren't really needed.
The mandatory medical training he'd received from physicians and paramedics kicked in again. He checked Katerina visually from head to foot. Her pupils were equal and there wasn't any blood oozing from ears, nose, or mouth. Besides the obvious fracture of her left arm, all he could see were scattered scrapes and bruises. Even the area on her lower left chest where blood had seeped onto her shirt showed only nasty-looking abrasions, although he suspected several ribs were fractured. He didn't have a stethoscope, but pressing his ear to both sides of her chest convinced him her breath sounds were normal, without an obvious pneumothorax.
The bag she'd been carrying lay nearby. It had burst open and the medical supplies it once contained lay scattered on the ground. Martin scooped up packs of sterile sponges and rolls of gauze, iodine swabs and alcohol pads, and material for a moldable splint. He rapidly applied them to Katerina's worst injuries, immobilizing her injured left arm with the splint and speaking soothingly to her as she writhed weakly. For a moment he considered bending the flexible splint material into a loose cervical collar, but decided not to. If he didn't do it right, his impromptu device might choke her.
There was a prepackaged syringe of meperidine in the small medkit. Katerina only moaned when he asked how much she was hurting, but what he had to do next would cause her unavoidable pain. He injected the painkiller into her upper right arm, then ran to the rover and swiftly returned with it. There was no room in the rear of the vehicle to lay her flat. As gently as possible he lifted her up, cradled in his arms like a baby, and set her in the passenger seat.
Martin grabbed the Mylar blanket from the back of the rover and draped it over her torso and lower body, trying to keep her warm. Then he quickly fastened her harness, using it to press her left forearm against her chest to keep the broken upper limb from moving. Finally he wrapped and tied a roll of gauze around her forehead and the headrest of her seat to keep her neck stabilized as best he could for the long ride back to the habitation module.
He ignored the portable blood pressure machine in the back of the rover. Even if she was bleeding internally and her blood pressure was low, the IV fluids and other items he needed to treat her were all back at the module.
Martin winced every time the rover dipped and bounced over the uneven ground, glancing at Katerina to see if it made her pain worse. She still answered all his questions with silence or moans as he raced toward the module. And there was no point checking if the radio was working again. Even if he could contact Mission Control, there wasn't anything the doctors there could tell him to do right now that he hadn't done already.
The nightmarish drive ended in the twilight of a reddish sunset. Martin carefully extricated Katerina from the vehicle and carried her to the module's science lab. He gently placed her on their diagnostic table and unpacked the most sophisticated medical equipment in twenty-five million kilometers. The pulse oximeter he clipped to her finger showed her heart rate was fast, but oxygen saturation was normal.
Katerina groaned as he inserted an IV near her right wrist. He started a liter bag of normal saline flowing and then wrapped the cuff of an automatic blood pressure monitor around her upper right arm. The first reading on its digital display was 93/60 mmHg—low, but not dangerously low. The fluid entering her vein should raise it.
It was time to try getting more advice. He operated a nearby transceiver and gave the quickest summary he could of how Katerina was injured. During the minutes he waited for a reply, Martin unclasped the gold chain and cross from around her neck. If she'd been more conscious she would have protested his violating her modesty by removing her clothes. He certainly didn't want to glimpse her nakedness for the first time under these circumstances—but he had to do it to check for any more injuries.
With her body now covered only by two white sheets too thin to interfere with the tests she needed, Martin placed EKG patches on her chest and did a quick series of digital x-rays. As the blood pressure cuff inflated and deflated periodically, he watched anxiously as the readings on the monitor drifted gradually downward.
While he worked Martin wiped moisture from his eyes. He glanced at the flat colorful icons Katerina had fastened to the door of the small locker where she stored her books and personal items. One icon depicted a smiling young woman who resembled Katerina dressed in ancient garb, her head framed by a golden nimbus. He remembered what she'd said the Cyrillic letters on the icon spelled.
St. Catherine of Alexandria. Virgin and Martyr.
As he prepared the portable ultrasound system, a voice from Earth resounded in the lab.
“Stone here. We received your report. Send us a continuous telemetry feed of all of Katerina's readings, especially her blood pressure and heart rate. Then transmit any x-rays you've done. If you haven't done one yet, do a FAST scan. When you can, give us video on her, measure her hematocrit, and insert a Foley catheter.”
Martin's hands shook as he obeyed those orders. It was hard to keep the blunt transducer steady as he scanned Katerina's heart, abdomen, and pelvis. The fears flooding his mind made it difficult to perform the Focused Abdominal Sonography for Trauma study, much less interpret the shifting images on the ultrasound system's screen. But the experts back home receiving the images would know what they meant.
The blood pressure monitor read 83/50 mmHg as he got another liter of normal saline ready to give her. He dropped the plastic bag of fluid as Dr. Stone's voice returned. “Our radiologists and trauma surgeons reviewed the tests you did. The x-rays show fractures of several lower left ribs and the shaft of her left humerus. Those injuries aren't life-threatening.
“We can't tell for sure if she has intracranial bleeding since you don't have a CT scanner. Unfortunately, the ultrasound showed a large amount of free fluid in both upper quadrants of her abdomen. That indicates she's seriously injured her spleen and possibly her liver, and she's bleeding into the abdomen.”
Martin screamed, “What can I do about that?”
Dr. Stone seemed to answer his question, though the physician wouldn't hear it for over another minute. “Normally under these circumstances a surgeon would do a laparotomy—an operation you aren't trained to do. For now make sure her legs are elevated and start giving her the stock of artificial blood you have. Since you both have the same blood type, as a last resort you could transfuse her with up to a liter of your own blood.”
Martin shouted, “What if that doesn't work? I love her! We have our whole lives ahead of us, children to have and raise, a future to build! There must be something I can do to save her!”
Long before he could answer those latest words, Stone said softly, “But everything you do may not be enough. You must prepare for the worst.”
Martin tenderly touched the pale cool cheek of the most important person to him on this or any world. Only her closed eyelids flickered in response to his caress. He placed Katerina's cross back on her chest, then rushed to pierce her left wrist with another IV and
give her every last drop of blood he could.
When the reply to Martin's last words to Earth finally arrived, no one heard the heartfelt agony cracking through Stone's calm professional voice as the cardiologist whispered, “I'm sorry. We're all sorry it happened.”
Martin frantically squeezed the IV bags to pump more blood and fluids into Katerina, put an oxygen mask over her face, and rehearsed the CPR protocol again in his mind. But as the blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen saturation readings drifted ever lower, a numbing realization clamped around his heart like a fist. Whatever he did wouldn't change one simple fact.
Katerina was dying.
* * * *
You are dying.
The alien voice came from a great distance, muffled by what seemed like pillows pressed over her face. It was getting harder to breathe in her nightmare, but the pain in her left arm and side was fading away.
You do not have to die. It is easy to manipulate matter, energy, gravity, and time. We can show you how. You can use this knowledge to heal yourself.
Katerina tried to ignore the voice. In front of her she saw a great light at the end of a long corridor. It was like, or perhaps because of, what she'd read about in other peoples’ descriptions of near-death experiences. Soon she'd know whether it was a portal to heaven—or merely the last tiny sparks generated by brain cells starved for oxygen before oblivion enfolded her.
The light beckoned her. Her faith should have prepared her for this moment and given her peace. But other thoughts mocked and tempted her. Perhaps it was ignorance or obstinacy that that made her reject a real and tangible good—her very life—for an abstract principle. Was she really unworthy to wield the power the aliens offered? Or did her “humility” mask a sinful pride in her own boastful “goodness"? What if no person or deity cared if she became a martyr?
If she resisted this last temptation, she would never make love with Martin and bear their children, never explore the mysteries of Creation again, never feel any of the simple human pleasures each day brought. Was the tiny risk she might misuse a godlike power really worth losing all that?
There were no certain answers to those questions. In these last moments remaining to her, she could only decide what seemed right based on everything she'd ever seen, thought, and felt over her entire life. Without knowing whether it was right or wrong, she had to make one last act of faith. And it had to be based on a love that transcended only her own good.
Though you are dying, you still will not accept our gift.
Katerina's last words were the hardest she ever thought or spoke in her life.
“No, I won't accept it.”
Then we must find another way.
* * * *
The science lab was empty now except for the body lying on the diagnostic table. The room's smothering darkness was illuminated only by tiny multicolored lights glowing softly from the equipment lining its walls. Nothing stirred in the sepulchral silence.
The sheets covering the body fluttered, as if disturbed by a faint breeze. A hand reached up and weakly grasped the golden cross lying on its owner's chest. Then the figure slowly sat up and dangled slim legs over the side of the table. An outstretched fingertip touched a switch, and soft fluorescent light bathed the surroundings in a pale radiance.
Reflexively wrapping the white sheets around itself for modesty, the room's sole occupant studied the ragged bloody clothes, tennis shoes, and arm splint on the floor. Slender fingers brushed aside the IV tubing dangling from empty plastic bags hung on short silvery poles. Two bare feet padded softly on the metal floor, slowly wending their way out through the openings inside the dimly lit habitation module.
There was someone wearing a blood-red baseball cap standing in the module's open entrance. His face and back were turned away from her, and he seemed to be staring out into the black night. As she approached, without turning around he whispered, “How does it feel to rise from the dead?”
“The aliens. They healed me.”
The man said nothing.
“I remember hitting the ground and the terrible pain in my arm and side. It was like I dreamed you brought me back here, put IVs in me, and did those tests. I thought I heard Dr. Stone's voice—and then the aliens spoke to me.”
Katerina let the sheet covering her upper body fall to the floor. “Look at me, Martin! There's not a scrape or bruise on me! Not even puncture wounds from where you put in the IVs! It's like I have a new body!”
“No. Except for your memories, it's the same body you had yesterday morning, before we went on our trip.”
Katerina's grip on her cross tightened. She picked up the sheet from the floor and draped it over her torso again.
Martin turned around and faced her. His expression as he spoke seemed weary. “The aliens can read our thoughts. It's easy for them to manipulate matter, energy, gravity, and time.”
Katerina stepped back from him. “When did they tell you that?”
“Just before they showed me how to do it.”
Martin snorted. “I knew you'd look at me like that. You don't understand yet that accepting their gift was the only way I could save you. Nothing I could have done on my own, nothing Stone or the others at Mission Control told me would've kept you from dying!”
“You could've prayed for me, Martin.”
His sarcastic laughter ricocheted through the darkness. “Dropping to my knees and saying ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Marys’ wouldn't have brought you back to life. I tried that once twenty years ago, and I'll never do it again!”
“No, praying wouldn't have saved my life. But praying I had the strength to die well, without sinning, might have helped me—and you.”
Martin's lips curled. “Unlike you, I don't know what happens after we die. But I do know this life is worth living—and I don't need that pitiless God you believe in to perform a miracle for me anymore! I can make my own miracles now!”
He moved toward her—then stopped as she shrank farther away from him. “Don't be afraid. I'm not a megalomaniac. I don't want to rule the Earth. The only miracle I really want to do is the one I've already done—to ‘resurrect’ you.”
His face tried twisting into a goofy grin. “I'm still the same simple farm boy who loves you.”
Tears trickled down Katerina's cheeks like holy water, anointing the cross she held close to her lips. “No, Martin, you aren't. And unless God grants me a miracle, you never will be again.”
The dark figure in the module's open entrance turned and walked out into the night. Katerina slumped to her knees, her hands clutching the cross tighter as she tried to pray through her sobs.
* * * *
Martin trod through the murky blackness, his path illuminated only by starlight filtering through tattered wispy clouds. The night was too dark for human eyes to see the ground he strode on. But it was easy to adjust his visual spectrum deeper into the infrared and let the heat from the rocks and soil, glowing like hellfire, guide his footsteps.
He didn't bother to read Katerina's thoughts. No point invading her privacy, especially when he could guess what she was thinking. Eventually she'd get over her silly streak of superstition and be grateful to him for saving her life. He could use his new knowledge and power to do nice things for her. She couldn't object to little miracles—could she?
As he walked deeper into the ebony landscape, he sneered. Heck, if anybody knew how to handle what he could do now, he was the one. He'd read all his life about characters who weren't corrupted by having superhuman powers. Superman, Green Lantern, and Dr. Manhattan never did that—unless they were victims of bad writing. Slans, Baldies—they didn't misuse their special talents.
And, unlike the idiotic “hero” in that story by Wells, he was smart enough to avoid stupid mistakes when working miracles. Besides, even if Katerina was too upset to realize it, he was still the same down-to-earth Midwesterner he'd always been. He wasn't going to become a Missouri Mule—even if he did have the power now to rule the Galaxy.
Immersed in his thoughts, he suddenly realized he'd wandered into the field they'd visited yesterday morning. His enhanced vision saw corn, wheat, and green bean bushes swaying gently in colors no human being had ever experienced. Careful not to disturb those plants in their slumber, he walked over to where a few late-growing radish leaves poked up from the ground.
Martin pulled up one of the radish plants, scraped mud away from it, and examined its scarlet-and-alabaster root. His gaze penetrated into its very atoms, analyzing it far more thoroughly than the crude equipment back at the habitation module could.
He snorted. It was a plain radish, with the normal amount of water, cellulose, and other ingredients in its cells. Stone and the other “experts” back home meant well, but they'd been stupid to tell him he shouldn't eat his own crops.
Martin reached down with his free hand and scooped up some Martian soil. As he stared at it nearly all the dirt flew from his palm, leaving a small pinch of sodium chloride behind. He sprinkled the salt on the radish and took a bite. Its flesh was crunchy and tangy—a delicious taste of home.
Suddenly he smirked, realizing what he'd done. He was standing in the “Garden of Eden” and he'd just taken a bite of the “forbidden root"!
Something moved behind him. He turned around, holding the half-eaten radish by its leaves, like a century-old Hollywood jungle movie's stereotype of a headhunter holding his victim's shrunken head by its hair.
“Want a bite, Katerina?”
She'd put on the blue jumpsuit she'd worn when they landed on Mars. Her hazel eyes glowed softly like distant stars as she looked silently back at him.
Martin said, “If you're not fasting anymore, maybe you'd like something different to eat.”
Nearby, several stubby cornstalks shot upward like a movie made with time-lapse photography. Their sides swiftly bulged with green, tawny-tasseled ears.
Analog SFF, September 2008 Page 6