The missile, or bomb, or whatever it had been, had turned a pair of buildings into mountains of rubble. Nearby buildings stood without faces or roofs. Some slumped as if not certain whether to stand or fall.
The rubble was alive with Getesaph. They clambered over the ruin, digging with their hands. A few had gotten hold of shovels. One party lifted out a broken beam and passed it down the side of the mound to other sisters, who carried it out of the way. More sisters arrived every second. Many carried buckets, shovels, or jacks. What hoses there were got turned onto the dozen fledgling fires that sprang up like orange-and-gold weeds. Bucket brigades formed to help douse the flames and to soak down the nearby buildings. The wounded were carried to the sidewalks. Mothers, sisters, and daughters crowded around the victims, even if they could do nothing more than sit with them. No one was left alone or without a hand to hold.
It should have been chaos, but it wasn't. The Getesaph worked together without flaw, panic, or hesitation. Whoever saw something that needed doing first was in charge until someone with more skill or better equipment arrived. Seniority was yielded without argument. There were no spectators. Each new sister who arrived fit herself into the rhythm of the work, like an expert singer joining in on a chorus.
Even the two fathers lurking around the edges seemed to know something important was happening. They stayed where they were without seeking to touch anyone or find what they needed to satisfy themselves.
It was incredible to watch. No group of Humans could have worked like that without years of training. For the Dedelphi this was simply the way it was. For Arron it was the ultimate contradiction. How could they work together so seamlessly but still fight so viciously? There were a million theories, of course, from hormones to pheromones to telepathy, but no one knew for certain. A professor of his had once said, “God introduced us to the Dedelphi to show us how ignorant we still are.”
Arron looked at the rubble and hesitated. The fire brigades and some heavy evacuation equipment were starting to arrive. He swerved around the main ruination and headed for the wounded. His first aid was good, and most of it functioned as well on a Getesaph as on a Human.
After that, the world narrowed down to binding lacerations with stockings or torn sleeves or, occasionally, a real sterile bandage. Tunics, skirts, and trousers became pillows and blankets. Blood and gore and body fluids coated his gloves. More blood spattered his helmet and shirt. Sweat poured down his face faster than the clean-suit could wick it away. It puddled under his collar and in the small of his back.
Once, he arrived to find someone impaled on a splinter of wood. Another time, he saw a wailing cluster of daughters around their mother, whose head had been crumpled in like a rotted pumpkin. He could only turn away and let sisters and other mothers comfort the ones suddenly bereaved.
Then, as he lifted a prostrate sister's eyelids to check her pupils, a Getesaph in the white-and-gold coveralls of the public-health team, knelt beside him and gently lifted his hands off the patient.
Arron stood up and backed away. His vision took a moment to clear. Around him he saw more sisters in public-health uniforms descending on the wounded with medical kits, body boards, and oxygen masks.
His job was over. He could stand there and notice that his hands were shaking and how badly he needed a drink, and how prickly and uncomfortable he was under his clean-suit and how sick and withered his stomach felt.
“Scholar Arron!”
Startled, Arron looked up to see Dayisen Lareet threading through the shifting crowd. He lifted a tired hand and waved to her.
“Mother Night Arron,” she said. “You look like you were in the blast, not just tending it.”
“I'm all right, really.” He wiped his hands ineffectually on his shirt. “I've just been learning about some of the comfort limitations of this suit.”
“I'm sure.” She looked him over sharply. “You need to rest. Do you want to go home, or to your outpost?”
He looked at his gory hands. “I'd better go to the outpost. I'm going to need a fresh suit and a really long shower.”
“I will walk with you.” Ignoring the substances soaking his sleeve, Lareet tucked her arm under his. “Umat became concerned when we saw you with the wounded. I said I would make sure you were all right.”
“Thanks,” said Arron, as they turned down a crooked side street that sloped down toward the harbor.
“Do we know what happened?” he asked after a little while.
Lareet bared her teeth. “The devna.” The word meant cannibal, and was used to describe the t'Theria. “Who else would it be? We think they launched the device from a boat in the harbor, then sank their boat and took themselves to the bottom so they would not have to answer to us, but we're not sure. We will investigate and report to the Sisters-Chosen-to-Lead. They will report to the Confederation. The t'Therian Queens will claim to know nothing, and no payment will be exacted for our weeping dead.”