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through the brisket and around into his upper flank. “Clamp back that subcutaneous tissue. Like that. Modify the rib spreader to clamp on the left withers only. Suction.”
    “Explain what you are doing, SsurreVa,” I heard TssVar say.
    I’m cutting open this man to repair your mess.
“Standard traumatological procedure: get his lungs working, arrest the internal bleeding, then fix anything that threatens the cardiac organ. His heart is already diseased, so I have to proceed with caution. I’ll do a laparotomy—that’s abdominal exploratory surgery—if necessary, after that.”
    I didn’t bother to elaborate, but continued cutting, and addressed my two resident assistants at the same time. “We’ll plug the plural cavity first, then deal with the gland cluster and the ribs.” To the nurse, I said, “Give me a series two chest tube. More suction. Yes. That’s it.”
    I had to move fast. The pneumothorax compressed the Colonel’s diseased cardiac organ (not a good thing), so I evacuated the air from the space between his lung and sternal plating and sealed the rupture. Once that was done, I was wrist-deep in blood.
    Shropana’s species possessed a network of glandular nodules—delicate-looking systemic clusters—that regulated every organ in his body. The high concentration of vessels in the clusters redefined the term “bleeder.” He was a
sieve
. By the time I located and sealed off the main culprits, fluid was spilling over the table onto the deck. The nurse spent as much time suctioning as I did cauterizing micro-tears in the arterial walls.
    “Doctor, his pressures are starting to red range,” the vitals nurse suddenly said. “We’re running low on plasma, too.”
    I didn’t need him having an MI on me now. Why was plasma a problem? “Get more whole blood in here.”
    “There isn’t any more,” she said.
    Unbelievable. “Does this flying waste station possess a whole-blood synthesizer?”
    The nurse took a step back at my tone. “Of course, Doctor, but—”
    I tossed a bloody instrument in her general direction. “Then have someone to whip me up a few gallons, will you?”
    I rapidly completed my repairs while the residents clamped bonesetters around his arms. His shattered ribs would have to wait for another day. I closed his chest and watched his vitals monitor myself. I didn’t dare move him from the surgical suite until he’d been fully transfused, but the immediate danger was over.
    “Deactivate sterile field.” I turned and found my nose about an inch from TssVar’s surgical gear. I kinked a neck muscle as I glanced up. “Well, Over-Lord? Enjoy the show?”
    “It is interesting to watch you work, SsurreVa,” the Hsktskt said, stepping out of my way. Was that respect in those big yellow eyes? Surely not. I’d just ruined all his beautiful handiwork.
    “Glad to hear it.” I stripped off my mask and gloves. He nodded curtly, and left the surgical suite in silence. Most of the team followed. No one said a word as they passed by me.
    A simple thank-you would have been nice.
    I stood by Shropana and watched his vitals as one nurse, who had stayed behind, cleaned up the bloody instrument tray. A resident wheeled in a new batch of synplasma and I set up the infuser feed lines myself. The Colonel’s vitals responded accordingly.
    Patril might just live through this, after all.
    I was still enjoying my success when the nurse jumped at me, and something slashed at my chest. “What the hell—?”
    My half-turn was swift and reflexive. Fortunately. The dermal probe aimed at my heart buried itself in the flesh of my upper arm instead.
    The good arm, too.
    “Hey!” Through a mist of pain and fury I saw dark, glittering eyes blazing over the rim of her mask. Fury-spawned adrenaline allowed me to ignore the wound and grab her skinny throat with my hands. I took a moment to tear away her surgical mask, although I already knew who it was.
    “Nurse Lucretia Borgia,” I said.