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3 - Where the Air Grows Thin: Saving Lives in Vostok’s Ruins
- Icarus
- Mar 18
- 6 min read
Updated: May 10
After three days of relentless travel across the Martian landscape, the Chinese rescue team arrived at the crumbling Vostok Outpost. Inside the emergency hangar, 72 survivors clung to life—isolated, wounded, and unsure if help would ever come. Tensions ran high as two worlds collided, but the visitors came not with threats, but with light, medicine, and the will to save.
If you missed, you could read the previous scene here: Rescue at Vostok Outpost – A Tense First Contact on Mars
Vostok Outpost on Mars – Mars Year 73, Sol 124
“Это спасательная миссия! Мы не являемся вашей угрозой!”
“This is a rescue mission! We are not your enemy!” he repeated, his voice firm but calm.
His words echoed off the metallic floor beneath their feet. The Russian marines exchanged uncertain glances, their grips on their weapons loosening for a moment. Amid the tension, one figure stepped out from the line—a slender woman in oil-stained workwear, short dark hair clinging to her face.
It was Elena Markova. Her face was carved with exhaustion and anxiety as she moved into the open.
“Stand down! All of you!” she gasped in English.
With a sharp motion, she signaled the soldiers to lower their weapons, then turned to face the Chinese group. Her voice trembled, but she held her ground.
“I’m Elena Markova. Chief engineer… We need help. Please.”
Dr. Huang Qian took that as her cue. She stepped forward from the Chinese formation, unlocked her helmet, and let the cold, stale air surround her. Switching to English, she spoke urgently:
“I’m Dr. Huang Qian, from Tianyuan Base. Are there wounded in need of immediate care?”
Elena nodded. Relief and tension warred visibly on her face.
“Yes—at least twelve. Three are critical. This way.”
She gestured firmly toward a cluster of field cots in the distance. Dr. Huang waved her medical team forward, who followed with heavy packs in tow. They didn’t wait for further clearance—moving silently into the dark, crowded hangar.
The smell hit them immediately: sweat, blood, and stale, unventilated air. Canvas sheets hung from ropes to form makeshift partitions, offering scraps of privacy in the vast industrial space. More than seventy survivors lingered or huddled in corners—some attempting to repair old electronics under flickering lights, others handing out packets of dried food. The hangar was a maze of used cots and thermal blankets. A grim chill clung to the air—there was no central heating, only body warmth and faint trickles of power keeping the atmosphere barely breathable.
“This way,” Elena said, leading Dr. Huang’s group. “We laid the worst cases near the remaining medical supplies.”
The improvised medical area sat behind a sagging plastic divider. Weak lights revealed four or five cots, each occupied by a wounded person. A woman moaned in pain; her thigh wrapped in thick bandages. A gaunt man clutched his side, grimacing with every movement. Others—less severely injured—sat on supply crates or wandered aimlessly, cradling broken arms or shielding taped-up ribs.
“Our oxygen supply is nearly gone…” the Russian doctor said hoarsely, turning to Dr. Huang. “Most of it was used during surgeries. Many died before we even had a chance to operate.”
He gestured toward a nearby cot, where a man’s chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. A bloody bandage wrapped tightly around his waist.
Qian nodded, her eyes scanning the meager supplies.
“We’ll set up a triage zone here. Who’s in the most critical condition?”
“Him,” the doctor replied. “Internal bleeding. We have no imaging equipment, and no sterile instruments for surgery.”
Qian’s gaze swept across the worn hangar, pausing on collapsed beds and dim corners.
“This will be our surgical station,” she declared. “My team brought portable power—we’re not risking a connection to your grid.”
One of the medics nodded and stepped back to retrieve the compact, battery-powered generator. The gleaming metal casing stood in stark contrast to the damaged Russian equipment around it.
Elena Markova, still catching her breath, straightened up.
“I held their hands as they died,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “I told them help was coming.”
She fell silent for a moment, then drew herself upright again—an engineer once more.
“Either way, we’re going to make order on our end,” she said more firmly, casting a sharp look toward a few nearby settlers. “Move the beds to the wall. Crates to the back. I want at least ten meters of clear space here.”
The Russians—clad in torn coveralls and worn boots—moved immediately. They rolled up bedding, tore down the makeshift sheets that had offered some semblance of privacy. Elena gave quick, purposeful directions, dragging an old storage cabinet herself. Overhead, the lights flickered—but the freshly powered Chinese generator hummed to life, casting steady illumination over the temporary surgical corner.
Dr. Huang turned to her medics—three figures in full suits, carrying advanced surgical modules. As the generator powered up, indicator lights flared to life on one of the suitcase-sized units. Another medic unfolded a sterile, collapsible tray and laid out gleaming instruments—their edges catching the beam of the lamp above.
With a soft electronic hum, the surgical robot came to life: a slim, jointed arm designed for precise incisions, scanning the patient’s body with built-in sensors.
“Activate sterilization protocol,” Dr. Huang said quietly but firmly. “We can’t risk infection. You”—she turned to one of her team— “assist with the anesthesia unit.”
She pointed to a pale, semi-conscious man lying beside a pile of nearly depleted oxygen canisters. He clutched his bandaged abdomen, and each shallow breath showed signs of internal bleeding. Two Chinese medics carefully lifted him onto a freshly disinfected field cot, while the surgical robot extended its slim mechanical arm and performed a rapid vitals check.
Meanwhile, the Russian doctors tended to the injured crammed between supply crates. One knelt beside an older woman, carefully wrapping a torn ligament on her arm. Another applied antibiotic ointment to a teenager’s scraped shin. The Chinese medical aides joined them, offering fresh bandages and portable diagnostic tools to ease the strain on the Russians’ depleted supplies. With quiet coordination, they cleaned, stitched, and stabilized the lesser wounds. Their presence alone—extra hands, calm and competent—soothed the injured.
Elena moved nearby, issuing instructions to her own people.
“Keep the area clear! No extra personnel in the zone.”
She shoved a stray crate out of the way, eyes scanning the space to ensure the Chinese medics could work undisturbed. When someone approached her with a question, she gave clipped, efficient replies, constantly splitting her attention between the outpost’s urgent needs and the immediate demands of Dr. Huang’s team.
“Anatoly, bring over those portable lamps,” she called to a passing Russian soldier. “Overhead lighting could fail any second.”
The soldier gave a rigid nod and hurried off. Despite the tension and the dim, flickering light, Elena’s voice carried a warrior’s resolve.
Dr. Huang looked up from her console and met Elena’s eyes. They exchanged a brief, nearly imperceptible nod—an acknowledgment of presence, of shared purpose.
“We’re ready to proceed,” Dr. Huang announced, gently pressing a scanner to the patient’s chest.
The surgical robot adjusted its arms with precise, fluid movements. A blue diode lit up near its head.
“Internal bleeding in the lower abdominal region,” she said. “We need to open him now—or he won’t make it.”
Elena nodded wordlessly, then motioned to the nearby Russians.
“Everyone else, step back! We can’t risk contamination!”
The onlookers—some curious, others worried—moved behind a hastily built barricade of crates. In the background, the wounded let out faint moans.
What followed unfolded with near-silent precision. Dr. Huang gave a command to the surgical module, and the robotic arm pivoted smoothly, inserting a hair-thin injector with anesthetic. One Chinese medic stabilized the patient’s airway, while another prepared a sterile IV drip, watching the flow rate carefully.
Elena remained at the edge of the zone, ensuring no one disrupted the operation. Even in the dim light, the robot’s cauterizing tip sparked visibly. The crisp beeping of sensors and the fluid grace of the robot’s movements only heightened the contrast between Dr. Huang’s cutting-edge tools and the outpost’s decaying surroundings.
Silence deepened.
The surgical robot hovered over the patient’s chest, guided by Dr. Huang’s calm, deliberate instructions. From her place at the perimeter, Elena watched with awe as these unexpected allies delivered what might be Vostok’s first real chance at survival.
With the help of the robotic system, Qian began the procedure. Almost unconsciously, as she sank fully into her work, she began to sing a soft Chinese children’s song behind her surgical mask—barely audible but steady.
In the foul-smelling, dimly lit hangar—where the scent of makeshift latrines, stale sweat, and recycled air mixed into a metallic haze—two determined women worked side by side. One was a gifted Chinese physician using twenty-second-century technology to fight for a life. The other, a sharp-minded Russian engineer, was holding together the crumbling remains of a shattered outpost.
Their collaboration was fragile, but real—a bridge between two worlds, forged in Vostok’s darkest hour.
Related posts:
If you want more of the story… →
Characters - Characters
Distress Call to Earth - Distress Call from Vostok Station | The Mars Chronicles
The story of Elena Markova's arrival on Mars - More Chronicles
If you want to go deeper into the world… →
Beneath Vostok: The Anatomy of a Martian Mine - Beneath Vostok: Inside a Martian Mining Operation
What Brought Down Vostok Station? - Collapse of Vostok Station: How Dust Brought Down a Martian Greenhouse
Breathe Carefully: How Airlocks Shape Life and Death on Mars - Airlocks on Mars: Survival, Stations, and the Thin Line Between Life and Death | The Mars Chronicles
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