Jennifer Wells - Beyond the Stars - At Galaxy's Edge

Grumpy, have you seen the news? Is it as bad as it looks? I hope you’re ok.

The news? Smith was still talking, and Frank raised a hand to quiet him, while simultaneously waving at the monitor hanging from the transparent composite ceiling. “Volume up,” he said.

“‌—‌ently unknown how many casualties we’re looking at here. Reported injuries are ranging from minor to severe, and several colonists are still unaccounted for. Colonial engineering operations chief Cena said just a few minutes ago that the affected area inside habitation module twelve has been fully vented and now has a stable atmosphere, and first responders will soon be able to‌—‌”

Frank bolted out of his seat and started running down the boulevard. He heard a grunt behind him, and saw to his chagrin that Smith was trying to follow. “I’m coming! I can help! You’re right, I need the exercise anyway‌—‌” He cut off as he stumbled stepping from sidewalk to street.

Shit‌—‌the man was probably going to have a heart attack from the effort. Frank waved him off. “Stay. I’ll handle this. You go... eat a carrot, or something.”

Frank was out of breath when he arrived at the entrance to habitation module twelve, and if not for the adrenaline surge he’d have collapsed in a puddle of sweat, leg cramps, and geriatric back spasms. The scene was utter mayhem, with the colony’s emergency team, medical staff, engineers, and even volunteers rushing around, frantically carrying victims out of the habitation module, working on emergency equipment or tending to wounded people lying on the ground.

In a moment of panic, he tentatively approached a blanket-draped figure lying prone nearby. The thick cloth covered the entire body, head and all, and Frank felt the confusing chorus of emotion that alternated between grief for the victim underneath, and rage that he’d missed his chance. Dammit! He’d waited too long. He’d dithered and puttered and postponed his plan for weeks, and now it was too late. Someone else would be the first man to die on Mars. He half-hoped it was that smug self-righteous Su, before he remembered the first man on Mars wasn’t slated to arrive for another six months, at least.

He crouched down and, slowly, mournfully‌—‌for himself and for the stranger‌—‌rested a hand on the blanket-covered head.

“Agh!”

His heart jumped up into his throat and he yanked his hand away from the blanket, which flew off the head as the woman underneath brushed it away in a fit. “You scared the shit out of me!”

He grimaced. “Sorry! I’m so sorry, I thought... well, I thought‌—‌”

Her face changed, and he recognized the look. The look of an expression changing from ‘who the hell is this angry old bastard’ to ‘Oh my god, it’s Frank Bickham.’ “Mr. Bickham! I’m sorry I snapped. I’m just in a daze. Very tired. Very...” She started crying.

Looking up at the frantic scene all around him‌—‌first responders were just now carrying another dazed, bloody victim from the smoking entrance to the habitation module‌—‌he realized he’d be next to useless in the actual emergency response, so he knelt down and reached for the woman’s hand. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have startled you. Are you hurt? Can I help you?”

“Just frightened,” she managed to choke out in between heaving sobs. “I‌—‌i‌—‌it was so horrible!”

“It’ll be all right,” he said, stroking her hand, wanting to believe his own words. Please be all right. Please don’t die. Nobody die. That’s my job. You people better not mess this up for me...

He lost track of how long he knelt there with the woman, but eventually a medic stood over them both. “Mr. Bickham? Thank you so much for your assistance. Mrs. Doughby here was just in shock. We’ll take her into the medical center now, but I expect she’ll be just fine.”

Frank tried to keep his expression neutral, but concerned. “How is everyone else? Any casualties? Everyone alive?”

The question seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Answer the damn question, man!

“Miraculously, everyone is alive. A few are in serious condition, and one in critical, but we’re hoping for the best.”

Frank struggled to suppress his glee, doing his best ‘concerned old guy’ look. “Please let me know how I can help. Consider me at your disposal.”

“Is that Frank Bickham?” said a loud voice nearby. To his chagrin, someone holding a large news camera swiveled his way, and the same anchorwoman he’d seen on TV earlier rushed over, cameraman in tow. “Mr. Bickham!”

“He’s been sitting with Mrs. Doughby here, soothing her,” said the medic.

The anchorwoman beamed at him. “Oh! Of course!” She turned to the camera. “Scarlet Paredes here with our own Mr. Frank Bickham, resident hero, and, if I may say so, an inspiration to us all. I’ve just been informed that Mr. Bickham responded immediately to the incident, and has been sitting here with a wounded colony member for the past hour,” she glanced down at his hand, still holding the trembling Mrs. Doughby’s, “consoling her in what must have been a chaotic and unthinkable situation. Mr. Bickham? Do you have something to say to our fellow Martians?”

He was speechless. “Ah...” he began.

Mrs. Doughby filled in for him. “He’s my knight in shining armor! He could be sitting comfortably in his penthouse over in Huygens, but instead he knelt here and s‌—‌s‌—‌stroked my hand until I stopped crying. G‌—‌g‌—‌god bless you, Mr. Bickham!” she said through sniffs and tremblings.

Oh, god.

The medal ceremony seemed to take for frickin’ ever, and Frank thought it was in poor taste, since there were people still being treated for their injuries at the medical center. But Governor Ladro had insisted, and blathered on for what must have been for over an hour about the heroics and compassion of Mr. Frank Bickham, Martian Citizen Number One ‌—‌according to the inscription on the medal‌—‌before hastily adding thanks to the rest of the emergency responders, who all sat in the first row gazing up adoringly at Frank sitting next to the governor at the podium.

That was earlier in the day‌—‌making him miss his morning coffee on Bickam Boulevard, dammit‌—‌and now he was back at the bedside of the youngest victim of the blast, Wixam Hanuman, age six. Exactly the same age as little Samantha. “Did you miss me?” he said, leaning over from the bedside chair, waggling his ears‌—‌Wixam always laughed hysterically when he did that.

“You were here this morning, Grumpy.” The boy’s eyes drifted to the medal hanging against Frank’s chest, and grew wide. “Ooo! Is that for saving Mrs. Doughby?”

“I didn’t save Doughby, kid. She wasn’t even hurt.” He handled the medal and fingered the inscription. Martian Citizen Number One. “No idea why they gave me this sh...” He trailed off, catching his profanity.

“Shit?”

“What? Uh ... no! Shamwow!”

Wixam eyed him skeptically. “Grumpy, that’s not a word.”

“What the hell do you know? You’re six.” He lazily traced the ‘Number One’ on the medal with a finger, the phrase reminding him that if he was going to be successful, if he was going to win the race, he needed to act soon. Very soon. All the survivors of the blast were doing very, very well‌—‌even Wixam, who’d developed a few mysterious complications the day after the accident, was looking like he’d be just fine. But he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. The next accident might be worse. Or there was Ed Smith. The man claimed he was in perfect health, but looked more frail by the day. The old welder might just keel over and buy the farm the next time he tripped on the sidewalk. And where would that put Frank’s meticulous plan? Tits up. That’s where.