She loaded the vial into an injector, pressed it to the side of Tilo’s neck, and pushed.
Then there was nothing to do but wait.
Nobody in the medical bay spoke.
Pip and Tilo stood at the monitors.
Tilo’s workmates huddled in the doorway.
Hamish sat in his chair, pale and swaying slightly, a bandage taped over the inside of his elbow, his eyes fixed on the young man in the bed.
One minute, two.
The heart rate readout held at the same terrible, slow pace.
Three minutes, four.
At five minutes, the neural activity readout flickered upward, just slightly, just 2%.
Cepha thought she had imagined it.
At six minutes, it rose again, 4%, then six.
At eight minutes, Tilo’s chest rose in a long, deep breath, the first full breath he had taken since the cargo bay.
His heart rate climbed.
His head fins very slowly began to lift.
At 10 minutes, he opened his eyes.
He looked around the room, confused and frightened, and his gaze found Hamish sitting in the chair beside him.
Hamish grinned at him, a [snorts] tired, crooked, enormous grin.
Told you, mate, he said, right as rain.
And then, very gently, and with an expression of great surprise, Hamish Doyle slid sideways out of his chair and fainted on the floor of the medical bay.
When he woke up, he was in the bed next to Tilo’s with a fluid line in his arm and Sepha sitting beside him, holding a cup of the Liran broth.
How’s the kid?
Were his first words.
Recovering, said Sepha.
His fever began an hour ago.
It will be a difficult night, but his readings are stable.
The venom is being destroyed.
He is going to live.
Hamish closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
Good, he said.
That’s good.
You gave more blood than you should have, said Sepha.
And you ran across the station barefoot three days after a ski throw bite against medical advice.
Yeah.
If you were my patient on Lira, I would be very angry with you.
I am your patient, Hamish pointed out.
Yes, said Sepha.
I’m very angry with you.
She held out the cup.
Drink this.
He looked at the broth with deep suspicion.
Still tastes like a wet sock.
Yes.
He drank it anyway.
It was a long night, as Sepha had warned.
Tilo’s fever climbed the way Hamish’s had, and the young Liran shivered and sweated and tossed under his blankets, and Sepha and her nurses took turns watching his readings through the dark hours.
