FedCentral
Lunzie heard someone scolding her, or so it seemed, before she could even get her eyes open. Bias, she decided. Furious that I stayed too late with Zebara. Why can’t that man understand that a woman over two hundred years old is capable of making her own decisions? Then she felt a prick in her arm and a warm surge of returning feeling.
With it came memory, and than rage. That liar, that cheat, that conniving bastard Zebara had sold her! Probably literally and gods only knew where she was! She opened her eyes to find a tired-faced man in medical greens leaning over her, saying, “Wake up, now. Come on. Open your eyes ...”
“They are open,” said Lunzie. Her voice was rough and it sounded almost as grouchy as she felt.
“You’d better drink this,” he said in the same quiet voice. “You need the fluid.”
Lunzie wanted to argue, but whatever it was she might as well drink it, or they could pump it in a vein. It tasted like any one of the standard restoratives: fruity, sweet, with an undertaste of bitter salt. She could feel
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her throat slicking back down. The next time she spoke, she had control of her tone.
“Since I’ve been informed that you don’t exist,” the man went on, his mouth quirking now in a half-grin, “I won’t check your response to the standard mental status exam: no person, place, and time. I’m authorized to tell you that you are presently in a secure medical facility on FedCentral, that you have been in coldsleep approximately four Standard months, and that your personal gear, what there is of it, is in that locker!” He pointed. “You will be provided meals in your quarters until you have satisfied someone . . . I’m not supposed to ask who ... of your identity and the reason you chose to arrive as a shipment of muslae-rur carpets. Do you remember who you are? Or are you suffering disorienta-tion?”
“I know who I am,” said Lunzae, grimly. “And I know who got me into this. Is this a Fleet facility, or civilian FSP?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to say. Your physical parameters are now within normal limits. Telemetry has transmitted that fact to ... to those making decisions and I am required to withdraw.” He sketched a wave and smiled, this time with no apparent irony. “I hope you’re feeling better and that you have a happy stay here.” Then he was gone, closing behind him a heavy door with a suspiciously decided clunk-click.
Lunzie lay still a moment, trying to think her way through it all. Telemetry? That meant she was still being monitored. She had on not the outfit she last remembered, the pressure suit and coverall she had worn on Diplo, but a hospital gown with ridiculous yellow daisies, printed white crinlded stuff that felt like plastic. Someone’s idea of cheerful: it wasn’t hers. She saw no wires, felt no tubes, so the telemetry must be remote. A “smart” hospital bed could keep track of a patient’s heart and respiration rate, temperature, activity, and even bowel sounds, without anything being attached to the patient.
She sat up, carefully easing her arms and legs into motion again. No dizziness, no nausea, no pounding