on the small side table then opened the metal box containing bandages and other medical supplies. “We have enough to worry about without you plaguing him with unnecessary questions.”
“Unneces—”
“Ani.” Halak squeezed her hand. “Dalal’s just a crabby old woman used to bossing people around.”
“Crabby.” Dalal’s withered fingers stirred the box’s contents then plucked out a selection of antimicrobial packs and pressure rolls. “Can’t see that my bossing you around did you any good.”
“Of course, it did. I’m in Starfleet, aren’t I?”
“Exactly what I said.” Dalal’s eyes drilled Batra. “You going to help, or just sit there?”
“Of course, I’ll help,” said Batra. Did the old woman think a little blood bothered her? “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Dalal directed her to open three of the antimicrobial packs and to stand ready with a pressure roll. Halak’s skin flinched when Dalal removed the wet cloth from his back. The old woman had packed the wound with coagulant gauze, and she fished this out now, teasing an end free then pulling out the long bloody ribbon.
“It’s bad,” she said, by way of commentary. “I can’t see that it cut any deeper than the muscle, but I’m no doctor. You’ll need a good one, though, to piece this skin back together. Use those fancy autosutures they’ve got. Muscle’s cut clean through, and that’ll take special equipment. You get this taken care of when you get back to your ship.”
“What about a hospital here?” Batra asked. She saw that Halak’s features had twisted, and his skin jumped with every pull of the gauze ribbon. A tear leaked from the corner of his left eye. He pressed his forehead into the divan, burying his face, and said nothing.
“Wouldn’t be good for him,” said Dalal, in a tone that said the matter was closed. Dalal sprayed a dermal anesthetic over the wound, and then together they laid the three antimicrobial pads along Halak’s left flank. Then Dalal had Batra help Halak sit up so she could pass the pressure roll around Halak’s middle.
“That should keep you,” said Dalal, binding the pressure roll in place with an autoseal. “That anesthetic spray will last about five hours. After that, it’s going to hurt like the dickens. And don’t make too many sudden moves, or else you’ll rip that right open again.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Halak. His face had more color, but there were dark smudges under his eyes, like bruises. When he moved, he splinted his left side, not moving the muscles much. Gingerly, he reached around and worked a kink in his left shoulder with his right palm. “I don’t suppose you have any clothes.”
“No trousers your size, but I’ll wash what you’ve got, and I might have another tunic you can use,” said Dalal. She turned and seemed to really see Batra for the first time. “I’ll probably have something for you, too. No fancy britches or chadors, though.”
“Whatever you have is fine.”
“Well then, get yourself cleaned up. You know where the bathroom is.” Dalal made that harrumphing, old-woman sound again. “Frankly, I’m surprised you weren’t jumped long before. That costume practically screams tourist. Wouldn’t survive long here, I can tell you that.”
Batra felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Dalal,” Halak began.
“No, Samir, it’s all right,” said Batra. Pushing to her feet, she squared her shoulders and glared down at the little woman. “You’re right, Dalal. My clothes do scream tourist, but that’s what I am, and I’m not ashamed of that. I serve in Starfleet, and I’m not ashamed of that either. I’m not an addict. I don’t live in a slum. I haven’t known the type of poverty that exists here, but I’ll tell you something: simply surviving is nothing to be proud of. You survive, Dalal, but you lock your door and screen your windows. Your neighbors all survive, but not one of them came to help us. Survival
“Unneces—”
“Ani.” Halak squeezed her hand. “Dalal’s just a crabby old woman used to bossing people around.”
“Crabby.” Dalal’s withered fingers stirred the box’s contents then plucked out a selection of antimicrobial packs and pressure rolls. “Can’t see that my bossing you around did you any good.”
“Of course, it did. I’m in Starfleet, aren’t I?”
“Exactly what I said.” Dalal’s eyes drilled Batra. “You going to help, or just sit there?”
“Of course, I’ll help,” said Batra. Did the old woman think a little blood bothered her? “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Dalal directed her to open three of the antimicrobial packs and to stand ready with a pressure roll. Halak’s skin flinched when Dalal removed the wet cloth from his back. The old woman had packed the wound with coagulant gauze, and she fished this out now, teasing an end free then pulling out the long bloody ribbon.
“It’s bad,” she said, by way of commentary. “I can’t see that it cut any deeper than the muscle, but I’m no doctor. You’ll need a good one, though, to piece this skin back together. Use those fancy autosutures they’ve got. Muscle’s cut clean through, and that’ll take special equipment. You get this taken care of when you get back to your ship.”
“What about a hospital here?” Batra asked. She saw that Halak’s features had twisted, and his skin jumped with every pull of the gauze ribbon. A tear leaked from the corner of his left eye. He pressed his forehead into the divan, burying his face, and said nothing.
“Wouldn’t be good for him,” said Dalal, in a tone that said the matter was closed. Dalal sprayed a dermal anesthetic over the wound, and then together they laid the three antimicrobial pads along Halak’s left flank. Then Dalal had Batra help Halak sit up so she could pass the pressure roll around Halak’s middle.
“That should keep you,” said Dalal, binding the pressure roll in place with an autoseal. “That anesthetic spray will last about five hours. After that, it’s going to hurt like the dickens. And don’t make too many sudden moves, or else you’ll rip that right open again.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Halak. His face had more color, but there were dark smudges under his eyes, like bruises. When he moved, he splinted his left side, not moving the muscles much. Gingerly, he reached around and worked a kink in his left shoulder with his right palm. “I don’t suppose you have any clothes.”
“No trousers your size, but I’ll wash what you’ve got, and I might have another tunic you can use,” said Dalal. She turned and seemed to really see Batra for the first time. “I’ll probably have something for you, too. No fancy britches or chadors, though.”
“Whatever you have is fine.”
“Well then, get yourself cleaned up. You know where the bathroom is.” Dalal made that harrumphing, old-woman sound again. “Frankly, I’m surprised you weren’t jumped long before. That costume practically screams tourist. Wouldn’t survive long here, I can tell you that.”
Batra felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Dalal,” Halak began.
“No, Samir, it’s all right,” said Batra. Pushing to her feet, she squared her shoulders and glared down at the little woman. “You’re right, Dalal. My clothes do scream tourist, but that’s what I am, and I’m not ashamed of that. I serve in Starfleet, and I’m not ashamed of that either. I’m not an addict. I don’t live in a slum. I haven’t known the type of poverty that exists here, but I’ll tell you something: simply surviving is nothing to be proud of. You survive, Dalal, but you lock your door and screen your windows. Your neighbors all survive, but not one of them came to help us. Survival
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