Chapter 2 #2
That fact feels important. Perhaps it's because females are rare among explorers. Perhaps it's because she crossed the minefield alone. Or perhaps it' simply because every answer I uncover creates two new questions.
Whatever the reason, the female who crossed the minefield has become the most interesting thing I have encountered in many cycles.
I watch as the Mirex continue removing damaged equipment from the female's body. Living tools emerge from the walls and work with careful precision, separating scorched components from functioning ones and placing them in neat piles beside the platform.
"Don't remove her carapace," I instruct. "She's certain to need it."
Several tendrils pause in midair. "There is no carapace, Chief Harrower."
I study the healer for a moment, convinced I have misunderstood. The statement makes no sense. Every spacefaring species I have encountered has some form of natural protection. Those that do not usually compensate with artificial structures. "What do you mean, there is no carapace?"
"The outer coverings are artificial." As if to demonstrate the point, the Mirex peels away another damaged layer. Smooth skin appears beneath it. I watch closely while the healer removes a second layer, then a third. Each time the result is the same.
The conclusion comes reluctantly. The female is not protected by those layers. The layers themselves are equipment.
I move closer to the platform and study the exposed skin. An odd sensation settles over me as I watch. The discovery feels strangely intimate, as though I have learned something private without permission. "Surely she cannot be this exposed."
The Mirex ripples its tendrils in confusion. "Exposed?"
"Where are her defensive structures?" I ask. "Her armor plates. Her ridges. Her hardened surfaces."
The healer hesitates before answering. "I don’t believe she has any."
I look down at the unconscious pilot again. Her skin is smooth across almost every visible surface. There are no armor plates, sensory ridges, protective scales, or defensive spines. Every feature appears soft, vulnerable, and absurdly unguarded.
At first I assume this should make her seem weak.
But the more I think about it, the less convincing that conclusion becomes.
A species this fragile should never have crossed the minefield.
The vessel was inadequate. The pilot appears physically delicate.
Every fact I have learned about her argues against survival.
Yet she crossed most of the field alone and remained alive long enough for me to retrieve her.
My eyes drift across the injuries visible beneath the damaged clothing. The wounds are extensive. Biological displays throughout the chamber indicate that several systems continue deteriorating despite the Beast's support. Most creatures would already be dead.
This female appears determined to continue arguing with reality.
"Remarkable," Sris signals from the edge of the platform.
I glance toward the servant crab and find myself nodding. "Even entering space must be difficult for her kind."
"Which makes the minefield accomplishment even more impressive."
"Agreed - oh, wither!" As my hand nears the female’s torso, a long, blue-white spark shoots from my finger to her skin. There’s a little pop, too.
I freeze. “Did you see that?”
“Perhaps she has a defense mechanism after all,” Sris says. “Though it seems very weak.”
“Hmm.” The suit finally makes sense. So does the small vessel. So does the stubborn determination required to fly it through a region designed to destroy intruders. Everything I have learned about this species suggests vulnerability.
Everything I have learned about this particular female suggests something else entirely.
A warning pulse flashes across the chamber. The Mirex immediately turns back toward its instruments, and several tendrils move more quickly than before. "Chief Harrower, her condition is worsening. We must begin treatment immediately."
I study the unconscious pilot while considering the situation. Curiosity explains part of my concern. She may know what lies beyond the minefield. She may know where her species originates. She may know whether there are worlds worth harvesting nearby.
Yet those explanations feel incomplete. For reasons I can’t fully grasp, the thought of losing her produces a sharp sense of dissatisfaction. That settles the matter.
"Then begin."
The Mirex becomes still. Several tendrils fold back against its body before it finally answers. "Chief Harrower, the treatment requires a compatible donor of vreths. And there’s only you, Sir."
I already know where this conversation is heading. The healer knows it as well. The Beast has a crew, but they're not Chief Harrowers, not even Junior Harrowers. Their vreths would be useless here, too young and too feeble. There is, indeed, only me.
For a moment neither of us speaks. Then our attention settles on the unconscious female lying between us, while the warning indicators continue their steady march toward failure.
“It’s becoming urgent, sir,” the Mirex says.
“Everyone out,” I command. “There’s no reason for you to remain. This delicate procedure requires concentration.”
“Of course, sir,” the Mirex says, hurrying out of the room along with a younger helper of some other species.
I point to the small garments that hide the female’s hips and chest. “Are those part of her?”
Sris checks with one claw. “No, sir. Shall I remove them?”
“Remove both,” I order.
She makes four quick cuts and lifts the slivers of fabric off.
“No shield?” I marvel. “Not even there?”
“There’s a thin covering of fine fur,” Sris reports. “That’s all. Sir, I recommend starting the healing procedure now.”
“I hope it works,” I state as I prepare my mandibles and jaw. “I’d hate to see such a brave and skilled pilot succumb to that minefield.”
Sris crawls out of the way. “Quite so, sir. It would be a pity, indeed.”
I bend down and examine the interface. Yes, very female, and highly compatible.
The heat from the alien’s midsection carries a faint scent that’s not as alien as I would have expected.
I bend further down and start the healing process.