In the emergency ward, Dr. David Atland was thankful for the exobiology class he’d taken in med school at Dr. Lopez’s request. He’d thought it was bizarre at the time, but now he totally got it. The government had been readying for this mission long before they let the public know. One of these Octopoids had been sent to the morgue, where a pathologist must be expanding his universe dissecting it. He had to deal with this living one.
The sixers had done a good job of taking him apart – now he had to put him back together. With the PUPPI gliding along the ceiling, following his every move, he slowly, meticulously sewed sinews of a tentacle back together. He hoped to the holey universe the poid wasn’t in pain. He didn’t dare use the usual drugs that would keep a human under. For all he knew it could kill the creature. Surgery had been a thing before anesthetics. Though the curdling screams of old war surgeries were horrifying, pain was less likely to kill than chemicals. There hadn’t been time to do a lot of chemistry while poids were bleeding to death.
Atland finished up and called for the next patient. The last emergency, his screen said. Expectant, of course. Triage had given him the ones who would more likely survive first. Well, he’d see about that. The weird guy, or maybe gal – or more likely a bit of both as far as he could tell – wasn’t going to die on his table if he could help it. There didn’t seem to be a heart in these creatures. Not a single one, anyway. There were little booster pumps along the blood vessels throughout the body. In a way that made it easier to keep them alive, as long as enough pumps to vital areas were functioning. In this one, they weren’t.
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