On the fourth day, Anjali was finally allowed to get up and leave the sickbay. Since he’d declared himself acting medical officer, Mikhail examined her leg wound, now healed and faded without even leaving a scar thanks to the nano-agents coursing through her veins.
“Looks good,” he finally said, “You’re as good as new.”
“So fast?” Tasha, who’d become something of a semi-permanent fixture in the sickbay asked, “Last time I got sick, I had to stay in bed for a whole week.”
“She ate icky, slimy things from a cup on New Brighton Station and got sick and puked all the time,” Spencer added quite unnecessarily.
“Those weren’t icky, slimy things,” Tasha countered, “They were mussels, straight from the ocean on the planet.”
“They were icky and slimy.”
“Were not.”
Before the two of them could
