The deep medical bay smells of ozone, burnt sugar, and the sharp, metallic tang of my own degrading nervous system.
I am lying on the central examination table, my left arm completely numb, a dead weight resting on the sterile sheets. The neuro-regenerators Margot is pumping into my bloodstream feel like liquid ice in my veins, but they do nothing to dull the diffuse, blinding static that crackles behind my eyes. Every time my heart beats, a spike of white-hot agony shoots down my spine, settling into the marrow of my bones.
"Her myelin sheathing is severely compromised," Margot says, her voice tight with clinical terror. She is standing over me, her silver-streaked hair escaping its bun, her hands flying across the holographic medical console. "Routing a planetary-scale data stream thro
