Three-Three-Four. Tell me your level of pain on a scale of one to ten.”
Lia was shocked by hearing numbers spoken out loud.
“I am not in pain,” she said.
The doctor put a finger to the stud on his chin and made a sound like a chittering wren. Lia had the impression that he was rattling off a series of digits.
She was in the age of the Medicants. The Digital Age. The Plague years. She had been in the future; now she had been thrown into the distant past.
“You are a patient at Mayo One,” the doctor said, returning to
inglés.
“Two-three-seven-nine Gregorian. You have received twenty-eight treatments, including six vertebrae replacements, restoration of severed spinal cord, skull repair, regression of four incipient tumors, partial ulna replacement, selective regeneration of muscular and peripheral nervous system, removal and replacement of ruptured spleen, seven cardiac reboots, and complimentary sterilization of sebaceous follicles to enhance skin texture and appearance. How do you wish to pay?”
Lia, more disturbed by his use of numbers than by the catalog of damages her body had sustained, said, “I have no means to pay you.”
“We have need for kidneys.”
Lia thought of the Yars who had returned to Romelas with missing body parts, and recalled what Yar Song had told her.
“I did not ask to be treated,” she said. “I will not pay.”
The doctor touched his chin stud. “Protocol two-nine-seven. Subject nineteen-four-seven-seven point three-nine declines to pay for treatment.” He tipped his head as if listening, then walked out through the open doorway. “Come with me,” he said over his shoulder.
Lia hesitated but could think of no reason to stay in this sterile, uncomfortable room. She followed the Medicant out into the hallway.
“Where are we going?” she asked. The doctor did not reply. Lia stopped. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where you are taking me.”
The doctor turned to face her. “You have been sold.”
“Sold?”
“You must discharge your debt.”
“I refuse.”
“You cannot refuse.” He pressed a button on his chest. A moment later, a pair of men emerged from a nearby doorway and came toward her. Lia turned to run, but too late — the men were upon her in an instant. They grabbed her by the arms and held her. The doctor rattled off a set of incomprehensible instructions, then walked off. The men dragged her roughly and rapidly down the hallway, her blue feet skittering on the smooth floor.
Yar Song had warned Lia that she might be enslaved. She tried to imagine herself working in “a house of abased women” as Yar Song had. She didn’t know exactly what that was, but she was certain she would not like it.
They took her into an elevator car, then down. The doors slid open, and they stepped out into a brightly lit underground space filled with row upon row of wheeled metal boxes.
Autos.
Her table had shown her images of such things.
None of the autos were moving. They seemed to be resting. The tangy odor of ozone and heated metal hung in the air.
“That doctor said I was sold. Sold to whom?” Lia asked.
Neither of her guards replied. They simply stood with her outside the elevator, waiting.
“Do you talk?” Lia said.
“No,” said the guard on her left.
“You just talked,” Lia pointed out.
The guard’s mouth shortened.
“What are we waiting for?” Lia asked.
The guard who had spoken gave his head a slight shake. Lia became aware of a rhythmic sound —
clop, clop, clop
— growing slowly louder. A dark shape became visible at the far end of the row.
A horse! A big black draft horse pulling a cart balanced on a pair of wheels. The man driving the cart was wearing a black hat and a black coat.
Lia turned to the guard on her left. “Is that a
Boggsian
?”
The guard’s nod was barely perceptible, but definite.
W ITH MOUNTING FEAR , L IA WATCHED THE HORSE AND the man draw closer. A
Boggsian
! It was the Boggsians who built
Lia was shocked by hearing numbers spoken out loud.
“I am not in pain,” she said.
The doctor put a finger to the stud on his chin and made a sound like a chittering wren. Lia had the impression that he was rattling off a series of digits.
She was in the age of the Medicants. The Digital Age. The Plague years. She had been in the future; now she had been thrown into the distant past.
“You are a patient at Mayo One,” the doctor said, returning to
inglés.
“Two-three-seven-nine Gregorian. You have received twenty-eight treatments, including six vertebrae replacements, restoration of severed spinal cord, skull repair, regression of four incipient tumors, partial ulna replacement, selective regeneration of muscular and peripheral nervous system, removal and replacement of ruptured spleen, seven cardiac reboots, and complimentary sterilization of sebaceous follicles to enhance skin texture and appearance. How do you wish to pay?”
Lia, more disturbed by his use of numbers than by the catalog of damages her body had sustained, said, “I have no means to pay you.”
“We have need for kidneys.”
Lia thought of the Yars who had returned to Romelas with missing body parts, and recalled what Yar Song had told her.
“I did not ask to be treated,” she said. “I will not pay.”
The doctor touched his chin stud. “Protocol two-nine-seven. Subject nineteen-four-seven-seven point three-nine declines to pay for treatment.” He tipped his head as if listening, then walked out through the open doorway. “Come with me,” he said over his shoulder.
Lia hesitated but could think of no reason to stay in this sterile, uncomfortable room. She followed the Medicant out into the hallway.
“Where are we going?” she asked. The doctor did not reply. Lia stopped. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where you are taking me.”
The doctor turned to face her. “You have been sold.”
“Sold?”
“You must discharge your debt.”
“I refuse.”
“You cannot refuse.” He pressed a button on his chest. A moment later, a pair of men emerged from a nearby doorway and came toward her. Lia turned to run, but too late — the men were upon her in an instant. They grabbed her by the arms and held her. The doctor rattled off a set of incomprehensible instructions, then walked off. The men dragged her roughly and rapidly down the hallway, her blue feet skittering on the smooth floor.
Yar Song had warned Lia that she might be enslaved. She tried to imagine herself working in “a house of abased women” as Yar Song had. She didn’t know exactly what that was, but she was certain she would not like it.
They took her into an elevator car, then down. The doors slid open, and they stepped out into a brightly lit underground space filled with row upon row of wheeled metal boxes.
Autos.
Her table had shown her images of such things.
None of the autos were moving. They seemed to be resting. The tangy odor of ozone and heated metal hung in the air.
“That doctor said I was sold. Sold to whom?” Lia asked.
Neither of her guards replied. They simply stood with her outside the elevator, waiting.
“Do you talk?” Lia said.
“No,” said the guard on her left.
“You just talked,” Lia pointed out.
The guard’s mouth shortened.
“What are we waiting for?” Lia asked.
The guard who had spoken gave his head a slight shake. Lia became aware of a rhythmic sound —
clop, clop, clop
— growing slowly louder. A dark shape became visible at the far end of the row.
A horse! A big black draft horse pulling a cart balanced on a pair of wheels. The man driving the cart was wearing a black hat and a black coat.
Lia turned to the guard on her left. “Is that a
Boggsian
?”
The guard’s nod was barely perceptible, but definite.
W ITH MOUNTING FEAR , L IA WATCHED THE HORSE AND the man draw closer. A
Boggsian
! It was the Boggsians who built
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