Chapter 4 Neela #2
Spellbound, I stare at this being—an entirely different species from ours. Thick arms, five-fingered hands, a strong jaw, muscular chest, legs wrapped in drenched black pants, bare feet also fur-covered. It’s fascinating.
Then I snap out of it. I’m just standing here gawking like an idiot instead of helping him. He’s unconscious and half-naked in sub-zero temperatures.
Those worries come flooding back. Why is he here? Is he dangerous? Did he come to join Vassili on some sinister mission?
Regardless, my duty as a doctor kicks in. I have to help him. It’s one of the Pact’s core principles: all life is precious and must be preserved. Even if he came to harm us—right now, I have to get him out of here. Fast. The sun’s about to set, and the cold will become lethal.
Taking a deep breath, I step closer and try to figure out how to move him. Ideally, I’d drag him to my snowmobile. He’s much taller than me. Should I grab his arms or legs?
The proper method is to support his head and back against my chest and drag him backward. If I can lift him at all.
I try. I fail. I’ll admit it—I’m a little flustered by this huge male body. And that wet fur is unsettling. I can’t get a good grip. He’s heavy. Pure muscle, I think—but still.
After a second failed attempt, I try a less conventional method: I grab his legs, straddle them around my waist, turn my back to him, and drag. Not exactly textbook, but it works. Efficiency over elegance, right?
After many stops and starts, we finally reach the lake’s edge. He’s still unconscious. And now comes the hard part—no more smooth ice. I have to haul him up the snowy bank and across rough terrain to my bike.
Thinking quickly, I pull out a rope from my med kit and tie it under his arms. I hook the other end to the back of my snowmobile and start up slowly.
Genius! He slides up the hill easily. I turn around and park beside his motionless body.
Then begins the long, exhausting process of hoisting him onto my bike. After several failures, I finally manage it—and now I’m seriously wondering if I can ride home without dumping him mid-trip.
But I’m alone out here, and time’s running out. I have to get us inside before the cold becomes fatal.
I climb in front and tie his body securely to mine. If he slips, we both crash.
I drive carefully, dodging drifts and branches. The trip takes forever, and at one point I fear I’m lost. It’s full-on night now, and if we don’t reach shelter soon, we’re going to die just yards from my home. That would be… unfortunate.
Finally, I spot the silhouette of my housing unit. Relief washes over me. I hesitate—should I park under the energy charging canopy and drag him another sixty feet? Or stop right in front of the door?
Screw it. I stop as close as possible. The bike can wait till tomorrow—my patient comes first.
A few moments later, I drop the stranger onto the floor beside my couch and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. I did it.
It’s warm inside—pleasantly so. The composite walls provided by the Confederation are amazing: they let in adjustable natural light and evenly distribute heat from the geothermal core beneath the foundation. That’s why I decide to leave his body on the heated floor.
I take a moment to change into something more comfortable and grab my medical kit.
“Alright, cat-man,” I say out loud.
Because clearly, now that I can see his face under proper lighting, he has feline features.
His head is well-proportioned, almost Human in shape, but with traits you’d find on a big cat: short, dense fur, a nose with a tiny leathery pad, larger ears also fur-covered.
Assuming he’s at least partly Human—or close enough—his vitals should be similar to ours. So I check: blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, breathing rate, oxygen saturation.
Not great. His body temperature is dangerously low—95°F. Heart rate’s high, over 110 bpm. Breathing’s strained. Oxygen levels are low. Then again, maybe this is normal for his species? What do I know?
I decide to run a full injury scan. He did survive a crash—he might have hidden wounds.
While rubbing his wet... fur? pelt?... I examine his massive body carefully. I notice his fingers and toes have retractable claws. No upper-body wounds—just minor abrasions, probably from the… uh… enthusiastic transport.
I hesitate at his frozen pants, then make a professional decision: they need to come off.
I unzip and peel the icy fabric down.
Yup. Definitely male. And what a male, I think, rather unprofessionally.
I refocus, remove the pants. No tail—not in the back, anyway. I’m relieved to find no lower-body injuries. I finish drying him off and wrap him in a survival blanket. Then I gently towel-dry his long, silky dark hair.
Once he’s more or less dry, I check again—and it’s clear he’s suffering from hypoxia. I may not trust all the readings, but that wheezing noise isn’t right. Good thing he crashed in front of me, a doctor!
I grab a small tank of oxygen-enriched air from the med cabinet and strap the mask to his face. After a while, his breathing steadies—but it’s still not great.
I curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, flipping through medical books on hypoxia, eyes still on my patient. I can’t decide if I should be relieved he’s stable—or worried.
Hypoxia requires oxygen therapy—which I’ve started. But that’s temporary, and I’m totally out of my depth.
This guy’s clearly from another planet.
Yeah, I know—thank you, Captain Obvious.
So, as I was saying: the stranger’s an alien. A very attractive alien, if I may say so. Let’s assume the oxygen level he’s used to is higher than what we have here. According to archives, the first Humans on Mars experienced similar trouble—they needed a week to acclimate to the thin atmosphere.
So I’ll treat him the same way: proper hydration, iron-rich food to boost red blood cell production.
Hydration? Easy. Feeding him? That’s trickier.
And where the hell am I going to hide him?
Kiran’s going to have a heart attack if he finds this guy in my house!
My thoughts spiral nonstop. There’s the medical side—like how to get more oxygen—and the practical side—like where to put him. And the bigger question: Who is he? If he’s aligned with the Regent, and his condition worsens, will the Palace blame me?
Exhausted and overwhelmed, I eventually fall into a restless sleep.