Notes on a Chest Wound

I awoke to the dull throbbing of crystalline nanofibers weaving themselves through the hole in my chest. It hurt to move my head, but I looked down and watched their glowing ends poke coyly through tissues to cauterize and pull them back together. The automatic painkillers seemed to be doing their job, but they made me spacy.

I dimly sensed that I was moving. Crystal walls slid past. I was flat on my back on what must have been one of the access shaft carriers. Above me glowed glyphic numbers in the walls, with small access doorways underneath. 902 was ten levels above me—I must have slid down the angled wall quite far before the lift caught me.

Why. Why why why. Why would security shoot a tenth degree keeper, far from the strikes on gate 90? One of the more indignant parts of my brain whined something about violating Article II of the Interspiral Concord of Human Rights. Thou shalt not infringe the right to healthy person. Thou shalt not shoot me in the goddamn chest.

My head slumped. Damn.

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