Rehab, pt.2
18 Sep 2021August Davenport
(Continued from Rehab, Pt. 1)Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.
I count the number of panels in my medical room as I wait. And wait. And wait for word, anything. Another person in the ICU drones. Or moans. Whatever.
I've felt the dilation of time. Seen it first-hand with FSD. This puts it to shame. There's something uniquely sadistic about medical waiting.
I summon a nurse.
"Yes, Miss Davenport?" A new one, a woman arrives.
"Yeah, can I get a pad or something? I'm bored out of my mind and a year behind the times? Reading and catching up would do wonders for sanity."
"I'll see if I can find you one."
A few eternities later, she returns and offers it to me. "Here you go," she says.
"Thanks." I smile and nod.
It's hard to hold the electronic holographic display, but I wedge it against a bed rail with some effort. "Activate voice command protocols."
Standard fluff. Someone's mad at someone. Corps continue to be corps. Someone called Salvation. Duvall is memorializing the NMLA anniversary and her father's death.
I frown. I chose to go out into the black instead of helping. Now I'm stuck here. I wanted to get away from the politics, but I also remember feeling shitty about not being there to support. I look away. A tear, filled with regret and impotent rage, streams down my cheek. Fuck.
"Pilots Federation Alert-"
I listen. Fuck! I can help! I don't have to be useless. I've got a Cutter still equipped with cabins and cargo.
"Nurse!" I shout, then slam the call button repeatedly.
"Nurse!"
"Yes, Miss Davenport?"
"I'm checking out. I'll need a mobility chair."
"Are you certain?" She asks, her voice concerned and disbelieving.
"Yes."
"Let me inform the doctor."
MUCH later, a young man with floppy hair comes in, holding a chart. "Miss Davenport? I'm told you'd like to leave?"
"Yes."
"Can I ask why? You're not in great shape at the moment."
I explain the alert. We go back and forth. He spouts off a bunch of risks, I remind him how I got here in the first place. He rebuttals. I remind him I'm fully functional in no gravity.
"Well, it's my professional medical opninion-"
"Are you revoking my license?!" I blurt out.
He hesitates. I see the shame of his overstep. "Miss Davenport...."
"Are. You. Revoking. My. License?" I demand.
"No."
"Then, I am leaving. I want a mobility chair so I can get to my ship. I'm /paying/ for it out of pocket, so don't bother with my insurance. I'll handle that side."
"If you're sure, Miss-"
"I am sure. People are dying, and I can help."