That is what Andrain had called them. “Yes. Grand mal.”
“Modern implants have a neutral impact on brain polarity and energy. It is possible your new implants are ameliorating the seizures, so they are reduced to petit mal, instead. I can prescribe an anti-seizure inoculation which will hold you over until you have emerged into regular space and can consult a specialist.”
“No,” I said quickly.
Juliyana raised her brow. “You said these things were killing you,” she pointed out.
“That was before,” I said. Even to me, my tone sounded testy. “Noam was right there,” I added.
Juliyana rolled her eyes. “Hallucination. You were having a seizure.”
“It isn’t typical to hallucinate while seizing,” the AI interjected, its tone studied.
“The anti-seizure inoculation,” I said, staring at Juliyana while I addressed the AI. “What are the side effects?”
“Many and varied, including increased seizures,” the AI said, happy to be able to answer a question properly at last. “Brain fog is typical. Headaches, slowness of thoughts. Impact on cognition has been recorded throughout medical history. No medication has ever provided relief and not made the patient feel groggy. Also, increased appetite and over the long term, slowed metabolism, both of which contribute to significant weight increase—”
“Stop. Thank you,” I said, looking at Juliyana.
“Shit…” she breathed.
“Exactly.”
“Are the petit mal seizures life-threatening if left unmedicated?” Juliyana asked the AI.
“Not generally,” was the reply. “Although they are usually considered to be pre-cursors to a full seizure, which in Danny’s case, may be fatal, according to her previous physician. Without a full medical history to hand, I cannot be more specific.”
Juliyana stirred. “Thank you. Dismissed.”
The concierge panel lights blinked out to the single glowing green point to indicate it was listening.
Juliyana crossed her arms. “Then there’s nothing that can be done. You can’t medicate, and you can’t predict when you’ll have the next one.”
“That’s the way I heard it, too,” I agreed. I got up. Everything felt normal, once more, yet I was still baked. “How about we get that dinner you were yammering about, when you came in?” Food would help.
We emerged from the gate thirteen hours later. In that time, I ate, slept a solid eight hours, and ate again.
I was back to feeling twitchy with good health and an overload of energy. One of the side benefits of rejuvenation is that in the second and subsequent go-rounds, you don’t for a second fail to appreciate youth while you have it. I found myself smiling a lot. I got permission to use the ship’s gymnasium and worked myself up into a glowing sweat, stressing my well-developed muscles.
I could deadlift a ridiculous amount, more than I ever had. The off-duty crewmembers watched me from the corner of their eye, just as interested in the weight I was moving around. I didn’t laugh out loud at the male crewmen who reached for the upper end of the weight stacks and turned red in the face proving they could sling more weight than me. They didn’t know they were responding to cues which came out of antiquity, that humanity had never got rid of and wouldn’t while reproduction remained a sexual process.
The rejuvenation therapy had been worth the outrageous price. Right now I was fully inclined to recommend the clinic to anyone who asked. I was unused to luxury level therapy. Ranger-provided rejuvenations were standardized—there were very few options one got to pick. The Imperial Rangers wanted their soldiers to be fit, strong and healthy, and that was it. Senior officers had a few more options, including cosmetic age, but less than the average grunt thought we got.
We were less than an hour from emerging out of the hole when I ended the session—not because I was drained, but because I thought it prudent to shower and change before we disembarked from the ship. Every time we had stepped onto a station lately, it had proved eventful, with no time to linger for basics like showering and eating.
This time, though, events came to our attention before we reached the station. The first I knew of it was when I was repacking my overloaded sack. The concierge gave a little cough and said; “Captain’s compliments. Will you step along to the flight deck, as soon as you can.”
Passengers were rarely invited onto the flight deck. They got underfoot and distracted crew with inane questions if they did.
“Problem with the IDs?” Juliyana suggested, looking up from her pad.
“Newman wouldn’t give a damn about that.” I sealed my boots and got to my feet. “Only way to find out is go see him as directed.” I didn’t for a moment consider the request optional. If I didn’t respond, a crewmember—possibly more than one—would come to find me and make sure I presented myself.
I checked the layout of the ship on the screen the concierge thoughtfully displayed. The flight deck was at the end of the main gallery, as I had expected it to be. Even though a flight control deck could be placed anywhere on the ship these days, most ships followed the ages old practice of placing the deck at the top or at the front of the ship. “Front” was often subjective—and could only be figured out by finding the outlets of the reaction engines and tracing a line forward along the ship from them. The Dream Queen, though, was elongated, and had a pair of stubby articulated guns facing forward, making the leading edge of the craft very clear.
The deck was cramped. The five deck crew manning the controls all rested casually against newish-looking shells which they didn’t need. The modern shells were smaller, yet there still wasn’t a lot of room on the deck.
This deck was a donut model, all control dashboards facing the center, where the screens could
