Al does what he can to assist Ossanlin-- mostly this consists of not getting in the way. The Mirage is Ossanlin's ship, after all, and the War-Prince knows his way around it.
Though he's just carried the badly-injured Hork-Bajir in his arms, his body and clothes appear free of blood. His face may be just a projection, but all color seems to have drained out of it. And at Ossanlin's suggestion that Salem had better be bringing 'a miracle,' Al's tight-lipped frown betrays just how little hope he has for this particular case.
Salem rummages through his ship, grumbling. It's not til he thinks back on Al's tone that his sense of urgency really begins to kick in. He winds up stuffing a few objects in his cloak's various pockets, opening a large blue-and-black medical bag, sticking a large jug-like object on top, picking the whole mess up by its twin canvas-esque handles, and starting for the open hatchway. Just before he leaves, he pauses, shaking his head at himself, and turns around. A few seconds and a few thought-speak commands later, and the ship's interior walls have lit up and brought up a display showing the exact position of Ossanlin's craft outside. This in mind, Salem heads down the ramp and walks as quickly as he can. He hoists the big, heavy, awkward bag onto his shoulders and breaks, hunched under the weight, into a near-jog.
It takes him less than a minute to reach the Mirage, and he heads inside without slowing down. "No doctors in this dump, I take it?" he gasps snarkily as he walks up to Ossanlin. Al stands beside the War-Prince, and there's what appears to be a morphing Andalite in the corner. Morphing to Hork-Bajir, maybe?
And then he catches sight of the Hork-Bajir on the lev-table, and his breath catches in his throat. His heavy bag clanks to the deck beside him. "Nerphid help us," he breathes quietly, not even realizing he's spoken aloud.
This is an exceptionally bad injury. There's an enormous hole through the creature's body. Where there should be bones, organs, flesh... there's nothing. Burn marks around the wound, though minimal, and it looks to be clean, at least, not the shredded mess one sees with explosives or matter-based weaponry. Thank Thaum for that, at least. There's not a lot of blood, and it looks as though Ossanlin's already applied something similar to his own force bandage technology.
He's seen people recover from worse... though not much worse, and never without immediate professional medical attention. They'll be lucky if they can keep this poor creature alive for five more minutes, let alone save him.
An image flashes through Salem's mind. Ossanlin. The very Andalite beside whom he's standing. Lying in the dirt. Blood pouring from his breathing slits. Both legs broken, badly enough that the War-Prince's shattered bones are clearly visible. Ossanlin's foggy mental state. His delirium and the onset of shock. His obvious, excruciating pain, kept in check almost exclusively through the supernatural intervention of a bizarre four-armed being. The Andalite's blood, pooling around him, while Salem works feverishly to keep the War-Prince alive for just one more minute.
Al kneels beside Salem and opens the medical bag. He sets the weird jug down beside it and digs out a little, cylindrical container of some glistening, silvery fluid. With one hand, he pulls out a syringe and draws some of the fluid into it from the cap of the container.
"Salem," he says, sharply but gently. The word appears to shake Salem from his daydream. Salem takes the syringe from Al and places his hand on the Hork-Bajir's neck, feeling along for something in particular.
"What've you already given him?" he asks Ossanlin, though his eyes never leave the Hork-Bajir's neck. "Do we have any medical facilities or personnel available?" His fingers appear to find what he's looking for-- a particular vein-- and he plunges the syringe's needle into it, gently and expertly releasing the fluid into the Hork-Bajir's bloodstream.