The Chesterfield sofa materialized in the hospital emergency port at BIF headquarters, belching smoke and flames. Jules, Tarquin and Archie lay heaped on the sofa, like discarded toys on a child's bed. Rescue crews pulled them clear just before the sofa erupted in a ball of fire. Tarquin lay motionless, face up on the floor. He had a pulse, but it was faint. Professor Tommy Cramdunkle and a team of doctors arrived at the emergency port and like a Formula One pit crew they burst into life, lifting Tarquin onto a hover trolley, running diagnostics and checking his vital signs. As the hover trolley flew down the hospital corridor towards the isolation area, tubes, oxygen and flashing machinery appeared around Tarquin's body.
"Heart rate 160," 160 is the pulse rate of someone jogging. No pulse at all is more effectivesaid a doctor, jogging by the side of the trolley.
"30 milligrams," 30mg of what? It has to be named. 150 years into the future, I'd suggest something that sounds like adrenaline/epinephrine e.g. NEONEPHRINE, EPISYNTH, or since the corporations have taken over, MITSUBISHIRINEsaid another.
Tarquin's head lolled to one side, his eyes bulged and his tongue turned blue.
" Cardiac arrest!" shouted a third.
"Not on my watch," said Tommy, halting the trolley. He worked calmly over Tarquin's chest. Nobody spoke. After several minutes Tommy looked up. "He's back with us," he said, wiping his brow and signalling the hover trolley on it's way.
"He's damn strong," said one of the doctors, as they took Tarquin into isolation.
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