“HEALER BICET,” MICH greeted, reaching out with two fingers to touch the bendalian’s thin wrist in the traditional greeting. He pulled away before she could touch him. She glanced quickly at her fingers, searching for blood, but they appeared clean.
“Healer, Janelle requires medical assistance immediately.” Wen’s voice was insistent, stepping forward when the medic backed away. Yellowed gums grimaced behind the transparent mask covering his face.
“Thank you for giving me this opportunity. I’ve put calls into Calcryon and I’m awaiting a response from their study lead.” He shook his head. “Forget that, this is more important. I need a sample of your blood, Mich Janelle. You too, Zeth Wen.” Bicet gestured toward the small set of pulse-syringes on the desk. His tone was clear; it was not a r
