Re-Coil - J.T. Nicholas Page 0,12
process might take years, but all of the polities of Sol agreed that it was a basic human right to eventually have your core shoved back into a coil. But that only worked when the backups stayed clean, pristine. Which, given all the effort and credits put into perfecting and protecting the storage methods, was supposed to be guaranteed.
“We don’t know. It must have been a systems glitch. The techs said they had never seen anything like it before.” He paused, long enough for me to briefly consider murdering him—or his coil anyway—for dismissing my near-permanent demise as a systems glitch. “But you’re okay. Your cognitive functions appear normal. Your adaptation to your new coil is… well, given that you’ve already started regaining control of primary motor functions, I would say it’s astonishing. And you don’t seem to be experiencing memory loss… other than the normal lag, of course.”
The normal lag. Two months gone. Who knew how close it had come to being permanently gone? “Get out,” I muttered. “Get the hell out and leave me alone.”
“Of course, Mr. Langston. There are clothes for you in the closet. I understand you’ve done this before. There will be the usual tests before you can be discharged. In the meantime, I’ll have some food and water sent.” With a slight nod, he turned and strode from the room, leaving me alone with my new body and an old mind full of dozens of jumbled thoughts.
I studied at the mirror, trying to get used to the face staring back at me. The coil was heavier than I was used to, layered with slabs of muscle that felt awkward and ungraceful compared to the body I’d had before. The features were equally thick and heavy, like they’d been carved from rock with a rough chisel and never known the fine finishing hand of a master. The skin tone was a few shades darker than my last body, a fact that in times past might have presented its own set of prejudices and complications. Humanity still had innumerable issues, but at least the process of switching coils had been the death knell of melanin-based discrimination. Thick brow ridges, narrow, deep-set eyes. A chin so square and sharp-edged it looked like it could be used to smash rocks. I suppose it was handsome, in the way that mountains are handsome, but the sheer size would make navigating the tangled wreckage of derelict vessels more difficult.
I scrubbed too-thick hands vigorously over my new face, rubbing away the weariness. The coil was the one I was stuck with, so I might as well get used to it and move on. At least the plumbing was what I, personally, was most comfortable with and the implant seemed to be top-notch. Sarah, I thought, status on the crew of the Persephone?
No members of the Persephone’s crew, apart from yourself, appear to be aboard Prospect station, Langston. I have broadened the search to nearby habitats, but with the transmission lag, I may not have results for a few hours.
I grunted, something my new body seemed well designed for. What about the ship? Any indication what happened to the Persephone?
The last record I have been able to find is from fifty-two days ago. At that time, the Persephone transmitted a salvage claim to the Venusian Consortium, tagging a derelict vessel being pulled into Sol. The Persephone was granted rights to attempt to bring any salvageable materials and any recoveries from the ship. No other records have been found.
The Venusian Consortium was a conglomerate of stations in near-Venus orbit. They’d started with the idea of terraforming—a pipe dream given that the temperature on the second rock from the sun averaged a balmy four hundred and sixty degrees Celsius and widespread terraforming had yet to be successful—but had eventually put so many stations in place that they’d hung a flag and called themselves a nation. They lacked the power of Earth or Mars, or even of the Jovian Alliance, but given how big space was, the fact that they were the closest polity to Sol gave them at least a certain level of legal weight when it came to authorizing salvage in the area. No one else was close enough to bother with policing it. So, we’d been going after something close to the sun. That was dangerous, sure, but fairly routine. What could have gone wrong?
The door to the medical bay opened, and I turned, expecting Dr. Parsons, or one of the medical