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“How much longer are you going to keep me here, Ellya?”
Rodin sat propped up in the cot, connected to the machines. His shoulder was in a gel cast, and his stomach was bound tightly—uncomfortably so.
“It’s for your own good,” the meditech said.
“My muscles are growing weak. I shouldn’t be lounging about like this.”
“You’re recovering. With the damage to your internal organs, pushing yourself will only make things worse.”
“But there’s things I need to be doing.”
“Like what?”
“Like a whole Factory to sort out.”
“Thought you had others looking after that.”
“Yes, but…but I can’t stay like this. I need to be moving.”
“Once you’re fit to do so.” She glanced down, at his chest—he wore no top—then returned her eyes to his face. “It’s about time someone forced you to t
