“Hold this.” I placed her sticky hands on the gauze, which was laced with blood-stemming agents, and then ran through the list in my head, checking her vital signs—airway, breathing and circulation.

“Damn, it looks like her lung’s collapsed.”

As far as I could tell, the bullet seemed to have missed her arteries and right lung, but the hole it had made in her chest cavity had allowed in air, preventing the lung from inflating. Left alone, it would eventually allow enough air to build up in there that her heart would start to experience problems—if she didn’t suffocate first. If I remembered my training correctly, the only treatment was to insert a drain into the fifth intercostal space to relieve the pressure.

I swallowed heavily and held out my hand. “Painkillers.”

Preston passed me an aerosol syringe and I fired it into the side of Clay’s neck.

“I’m going to have to make an incision,” I told her. She chewed her bottom lip. She couldn’t speak, but her eyes told me she understood, and wanted me to get the fuck on with it. I cut away the shoulder strap of her vest top and peeled aside the material. With Preston’s help, I swabbed the affected area with iodine and injected a local anaesthetic. Clay was sweating heavily at this point, and I knew we had to work fast. The scalpel was cold in my fingers. I tried to keep it steady, biting the end of my tongue in concentration. I could feel my own sweat breaking out. I lowered the blade until it dimpled the skin, and uttered a quick prayer under my breath. Then, tentatively, I applied a little force. I felt the skin resist, and then give. The steel slipped through and blood welled either side of the point. I felt Clay stiffen, but pushed deeper, cutting through fat and muscle. Beside me, Preston looked sick.

“Now the chest drain.”

The kid looked back at me with wide eyes. “What?”

I jabbed my finger at the kit. “That tube.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “Pass it here, now.”

Once I had it in my hand, I stripped off the plastic wrapper with my teeth and as gently as I could, fed the tube into the gory slit I’d made. Clay moaned but kept her mouth shut and her hand on the bandage covering the bullet wound.

When I judged the end of the tube had entered her chest cavity, I fixed the rest of it in place with tape and opened the valve on the end, allowing the trapped air to hiss free, and her breathing to become less ragged as the lung began to re-inflate itself.

“There’s nothing more I can do until we get back to the ship,” I said.

Clay gave a nod. “Thank you.” Her voice was strained.