The Promethead

"Made it," the younger voice sounded winded, exhausted. "Is she still–"

"Better than that," the old voice wheezed with delight. "She's recovering. Look at this; she's healing fast. She has to be Legionary!"

She giggled. There weren't any legionaries, hadn't been for hundreds of anna. All gone long, long ago, leaving nothing but dust and rust and bones.

The Legion Consortia Galacium was a memory – a memory of light, then terror: of dreams, then nightmares.

Was this a nightmare? Could she wake up? Couldn't she wake herself up?

"She'll be waking up then." The young voice was better now, hopeful. She was awake – must be awake! She could hear – she could feel everything.

Only her eyes still wouldn't open. Her mouth didn't work. Her body wouldn't obey her commands. She was mad at that, even scared. It should be quite distressing, but something was stopping her from feeling despair. Were her NANs forcing her to produce endorphins? Forcing her repeatedly into a dream state? To speed her healing processes? It made a… kind of sense.

"We'll see," the older voice replied, sounding distant – remote. "Come on, we need to reach the ridge before night."

Althea remembered Dorian again, the voice of the wind, the voice she should be hearing whenever she needed; a voice that she could no longer hear.

Where are you? What happened to you?…

"Dorian," she cried out, as loud as she could. "Why can't I hear you?"

Funny, her cry sounded just like a whisper; hardly a noise at all. She felt shock, pain again, then nothing.

The fields surrounded her anew, but they weren't quite so pleasant anymore. Were her NANs running out of resources, or was she growing tolerant of the high they were providing her. Either way, she needed to act. She wanted to get up – wanted to move – wasn't satisfied any longer to just lay there in the warmth. She wanted the wind, no, wanted Dorian!

Only… every time she made the effort, she floated away, back to the fields, again and again. For the first time she regretted paying top trilium for the best nantech.

"Any response yet?" Ah, the old voice again, Althea welcomed it. Gravity wasn't playing games anymore; she wasn't in motion, she was lying down. It didn't feel cold, didn't feel warm. Mechanical noises, hums, beeps, chattered around her – faint, but clear. Was she home? Already? That had to be good.

"No," the expected, younger voice answered. "But look, her visible injuries are almost completely healed. Even the scars are fading."

"Only first grade Consortia technology can perform that kind of miracle work," the older voice replied with wonder.

They were moving around her, she could tell, footsteps tapped, clothing rustled.

"She's still not waking up," the younger complained. "Any luck with the tech she had with her?"

"Very little," the other said without much confidence. "I'd rather not take any of it apart if I don't have to. If she doesn't wake up…"

No, she wanted to say. Don't take it apart – mustn't take it apart. I need it all.

Dorian!

"She has to wake up," the younger voice insisted. "She's gotten this far."

"This should help move her along," the old voice answered. Then she felt, heard – nothing – and floated nowhere at all.