I don’t have a sick-bay aboard Ma-rye-a, so Damion was in the guest room with a dying patient in each bed with nothing more than my first-aid kit. I don’t usually need intensive medical treatment. My medical supplies are geared toward a headache or the flu.
The way Damion explained it was that by the Valarians injecting Daniel with anhydrates, his body was full of what must have felt like small medieval maces floating around inside him.
Targus, on the other hand, almost had his arm torn off.
Damion needed a ship load of painkillers, a well-equipped surgery for Targus and an ultrasound-stimulator to break up the rocks in Daniel’s system. Headache and nausea patches were not going to do the trick.
Coal and Ma-rye-a had their heads together, or at least virtually together, trying to find the quickest route to the best facility for the equipment we needed to save our two friends. Ma-rye-a had already kicked herself into hyper-drive and was speeding toward a window by a little planet labeled M1743H2 when the Valarians overtook us.