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Rodin woke in a small cot with metal sides and white sheets, a wall at his head and green sheets all around. There were machines to one side, and data-pads attached to the backs of his hands and his forehead.
A medi-bay, then. At least he was alive.
He focused. Movement beyond the curtain, a tut of irritation when a machine bleeped. The smell of antiseptic that didn’t quite hide the aroma of human waste.
They’d removed his clothes, placed him in some kind of gown that opened at the rear. His neck smarted, just over his right collar-bone. There was a bruise on his forehead, and his knees were sore. Probably injuries from when he’d passed out and fallen.
Correction—from when he’d been injected.
Rodin cursed his actions. He should have been quicker to react, shouldn’t have
