C M Weller
Copyright 2012 C M Weller
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Dave groaned. On the upside, the painful part was over. On the downside, both his arms were now in permanent casts. More permanent than the circulation-restricting inflatable casts he'd had for the shuttle/ferry back to the mining base. They'd be taken off as soon as his bones healed, which was going to be a long, slow process. Even with medical intervention.
Six centuries ago, they'd have amputated my arms. Be thankful I'm here and now, eh? Dave could have shot his inner optimist. Why did his hobby have to be the goriest parts of medical history?
One biometric bunk over, the Drongo slumbered on, innocent to the path of destruction he had wrought. As always. Mama Ore would bill him, later. If he didn't somehow come out of it with another metaphorical gold ring.