Denys took the captain’s instructions to heart; apart from himself, everyone in the seven-man landing party was trained in security, ground fighting, or combat tactics. He assembled them in the ship’s armory, a cramped room stocked to the brim with weapons of every type. Four men, three women, all with the set jawlines and dispassionate gazes of trained soldiers.

“This is not a mission of exploration or peace,” Denys said. He would’ve paced in front of them like a drill sergeant (the movies always had them doing that), but there just wasn’t enough room in the claustrophobic cabin.

“This is an extraction mission, to be conducted within hostile territory,” he continued. “Therefore, you will all be equipped with standard fatigues, disruptor rifles, and whatever other tactical gear you would like to use. We will meet in the shuttlebay in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”

The group dispersed through the armory, combing through the stockpile in the search of fatigues that fit and a familiar weapon for them to use. After a few minutes of sifting through the rack, Denys sighed through his nose when he realized they didn’t make jackets for his short, stocky frame. Disillusioned with Coalition ideals of inclusiveness, he instead walked over to the weapons rack and selected his personal favorite: a small plasma pistol that was built for Sarvolyan hand size in addition to power. Tucking the chrome-colored weapon into his belt, Denys glanced around one last time before going back to sickbay.

The explosion had laid bare how inadequate the sickbay was; half of the injuries and equipment had to be moved to neighboring crew quarters to prevent it from becoming an overcrowded, infection-ridden can of sardines. Luckily, they had just enough supplies left for him to assemble a decent field trauma kit. Spotting Chisari, he got the nurse’s attention and jogged to meet her.

“How are the patients?” he asked. In response, Chisari’s amber eyes creased in the expression of worry Denys was seeing far too often on this ship.

“Ten should be fit for service by tomorrow,” she said. “Another five have concussions or other blunt-trauma related injuries that should be fine within the next few weeks. But the others…” She trailed off. Denys didn’t ask her to finish her statement; he’d seen the burn and radiation victims as well. It was very hit-or-miss with those types of injuries, and the effects could last for a long time. Symptoms could even flare up years after the fact, and--

“Wait,” Denys said, closing his eyes in an attempt to force the idea to the front of his mind. He sensed rather than saw Chisari stop and turn around. After a moment, the idea swam to the surface, and he opened his eyes in satisfaction.

“Check the captain’s medical history again for radiation exposure,” Denys instructed her. “That has to be where he got it… do not let it distract you from the other patients, of course,” he added. “But if you get the time please look into it.”

“Don’t see how I’ll get the time,” Chisari commented. “But if I do, I will.”

Denys nodded his thanks, then headed for the shuttlebay. When he got there, he saw that the rest of the team was already present, making final equipment checks and vainly trying to break in the olive-green fatigues before getting in the lander. Denys gave a small snort of laughter, before smoothing the wrinkles out of the medbay’s sole green lab coat and walking to the shuttle.

Denys was struck by how ancient the lander looked; it resembled the ancient humans’ Apollo landers, which he remembered as being a combination of tinfoil, duct tape, and a lot of luck. Not the best comparison for a ship he was about to entrust with his life.

“What could go wrong?” Denys murmured to himself. Then he shook his head, and led the team inside the cramped shuttle.

“This is LASV-2, requesting permission to disembark,” the pilot said, his voice betraying none of the concern that Denys felt. Nobody else looked worried, he realized. They weren’t relaxed; a tense silence had settled over the group. But he saw no signs of fear, not the kind of fight-or-flee, instinctual fear that was starting to course through Denys’s veins.

As the lander completed its final systems check, Denys tried to swallow that fear. However, it got stuck in a lump about halfway down his throat. Stars, he hadn’t been in the field in years. He hadn’t even fired his weapon in months; just as starships weren’t conducive to exercise, they didn’t have much for target practice.

Then the hangar doors opened, and Denys’s thoughts shot out into space along with the lander. Tucked within the medbay he rarely felt the Galaxie’s motion; now, he felt every course adjustment, every jolt, every bump as some piece of debris bounced off of them. It reinforced his attitude about the lander; flimsy, ancient, and not to be trusted. His only coherent thought was: Please get me back to my sickbay.

Unsurprisingly, his half-prayer didn’t work, and the lander continued its descent towards the planet. As it entered the planet’s gravity the lander picked up speed exponentially, until it was going so fast that the view outside was just a dark blur. Then Denys felt himself being flattened against his seat, his lungs constricting as well until he could only manage short gasps

“We’ve got a slight spin, over,” the pilot said. “Attempting to compensate.”

A few moments later, the pressure on his sternum subsided, and Denys took several deep lungfuls of air to compensate for lost oxygen.

“Sight spin?” he asked, still out of breath. “I’d hate to see a severe one.”

That earned some tired laughs from the rest of the team and no response from the cockpit.

“Beginning final descent, over,” the pilot said, ignoring Denys. “Thrusters engaged.”

Instead of being pressed back into his seat, Denys felt like he was being squashed into the floor. Aided by gravity and Newton’s Third Law, the medic’s scaly head bore down on his neck, which in turn threatened to bend his spine in a direction it definitely wasn’t supposed to go. One glance around the cabin told him that the rest of the team was doing worse than he was, as the lander’s descent thrusters slowed down the craft in addition to folding them like an accordion. Denys silently thanked his own stocky build and cursed the laws of physics.

Then the pressure stopped, accompanied by a tremendous jolt as the lander settled onto the ground. Denys blinked a few times, realizing that the soft landing might make up for their earlier discomfort. He glanced around the cabin, nodding at each person before unbuckling his restraints and unholstering his weapon.

“Alright,” he said, slinging his medkit over his back and flicking his pistol's safety off. “Let’s get our people back.”

The rest of the team murmured agreement as they prepared their own equipment. Then they stood up, readied their weapons, and opened the hatch.