Blank patches remained. Her left upper chest had no sensation: Czerda explained that was where the implanted ports were. They’d probably destroyed the innervation there. That was standard practice. She felt nothing on the insides of both arms . . . where the median nerve should have supplied sensation and controlled movement. One foot regained sensation, in a maddening pins—and-needles form, days before the other. Her nose itched.
The first movement, the first real movement, came when the nurse’s washcloth dripped cold on her shoulder. She flinched . . . and knew she moved even as the nurse exclaimed. She tried again.
“Again!” said Czerda, who had come at the nurse’s call. Cecelia twitched again, as proud as if she’d just taken a big drop jump. “That’s great. Now try the other one.”
Cecelia tried, but couldn’t remember how to move that shoulder. Someone tickled her, just above the collarbone. Ah. Yes. She struggled again, and felt her skin move against the sheet.
“Not as strong, but something. Good progress . . . keep doing that.”
She kept doing that, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. She tried to imagine what it looked like, the twitch of a shoulder. Not as communicative as a facial expression. And no matter how she struggled, she couldn’t move her hands. Surely she would have to move her hands to use sign language. Then, three days later, when Czerda had pulled her lower jaw down, she snapped it closed so hard her teeth hurt. She couldn’t open it . . . but she could close it when Czerda opened it again. Czerda chuckled.
“Yes—a good response. Now we start your communication training. I know you’re an intelligent adult, and I know there’s lots you want to say, but we’ll start with what we need to know first. We want you to have a yes and a no. Right now your shoulder jerk is your strongest motion: let’s try one jerk for yes, and two for no. Understand?”
Cecelia twitched her shoulder with contemptuous ease. She could have done that three days ago—why hadn’t they told her? Why hadn’t she thought of it?
“Good. Now . . . did you like your breakfast?” Breakfast had been a bland flavor of custard; she had never liked bland anything. She gave two twitches. “Excellent. You may not realize it, but you’ve just demonstrated that your higher language functions are still intact: you understood both directions and a question form. Did you like lunch?” One twitch. Lunch had been the date-caramel-almond custard, her favorite of the flavors she’d had.
“Now I’ve got to ask you a lot of boring questions that are standard on neuro-psych exams. And I’m going to record this, on full video, because it may be used in court to establish your competency.”
Cecelia hadn’t thought of that. Could someone who only twitched one shoulder be considered competent legally? She had thought she couldn’t fight that battle until she was well.
“Is your name Cecelia de Marktos?” One twitch. That wasn’t her full name, but she used the short form oftener than the long. “Do you know where you are?” Now that was a hopeless question. She knew she was on a yacht, but she had no idea where the yacht was. She shrugged both shoulders, the right more strongly. Apparently that got through; Czerda muttered, “Bad question” and changed it to, “Are you in a hospital?” Two twitches. “Are you in a spacecraft?” One twitch. “Are you aware of the nature of your disability?” One twitch. “Was this disability the result of natural causes?” Two twitches. No one was going to believe this, Cecelia thought. It might convince Czerda, or Bunny, but she couldn’t see it working in court. Czerda proceeded to questions of reasoning and general knowledge, most of them ridiculously easy: “Is a circle a geometric solid?” No, of course not. “Is a horse a mammal?” Yes, dummy. “Did you name Heris Serrano a beneficiary in your will?” Yes. Cecelia came alert again. “Did Heris Serrano unduly influence you to make her a beneficiary in your will?” No! She made that twitch as big as she could, and then a muscle in her back cramped. She gasped. Czerda stopped the questions, and patiently massaged the cramp out.
“I wish we could give you muscle relaxants,” she said. “But I don’t want to risk any more dissociation between your nerves and your muscles. Things are bad enough.”
Cecelia wondered what that meant. She had thought things were going well. If she could move a shoulder now, if she could answer questions . . . she pushed aside her own doubts and refused to pay attention to the doctor’s. Whatever the medical agenda, her own would include figuring out a way to ask for specific foods, things with more flavor and more texture.
Now, with even that meagre amount of communication, the days moved more swiftly. Would she like to try something with more texture? Yes . . . and a mouthful of something soft but grainy—still too bland—challenged her ability to move her tongue and swallow it. Would she like music? Yes. This music? No. Trial and error—more error than success, at first—remapped her choices in flavors and music. As she had feared, the dietician could not be persuaded to offer really tasty food, and there was no way to say More garlic, you idiot! with a twitch of the shoulder.
She learned to move her knees, one by one, and wished someone would think of using the twitch of her other shoulder and both knees for other useful signals, but no one did. Yet. In her mind she fashioned her own code: more, less, not yet, hurry up, enough, go away, question. The question signal would have been really helpful; she had more to ask them, she thought, than they had to ask her. But she realized, from their talk, that they were fully engaged already in discovering what had been done to her, and what might be done about it. For the urgency they conveyed, she could forgive a lot.
“Captain—two young . . . gentlemen to see you.” Petris’s voice carried some message, but she wasn’t sure what. This had to be the prince, and presumably some necessary companion. Valet, bodyguard, whatever. Heris made her way quickly to the access tube.
The prince all right, just the same as she’d seen in Sirialis, with that smug little smile on his face. Beside him—she blinked as she focused on the other face. The same face, rather. Side by side, two apparent princes, both with that smug little smile. Both in uniform, for a wonder . . . her mind ran headlong into the logical flaw here.
The prince and his double, of course, but the prince and his double were not to be seen together. Certainly not here, not now. If someone saw them both enter Better Luck and only one of them left . . .
“Welcome aboard,” Heris said, trying to think this out. “Mr. Smith, I believe?” She offered the same bland smile to both of them, no longer sure which was which. It was very good plastic surgery, she told herself.
“Yes,” they said. “Mr. Smith.” Even their voices sounded alike, which might mean vocal training or surgery there, too. Impressive, but still stupid. If they’d both come up on the shuttle with the others, then everyone on the Station knew.
“We don’t have a lot of time for games,” she said, trying for a combination of sweet reason and firmness. “We’ll be departing as soon as the Outworld Parcel cargo comes aboard, and in the meantime we’ll need to ensure that your . . . er . . . double has appropriate cover.”